WORDSWORTH'S PuEMS 





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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



A NEW KDITION. 

♦ 



BOSTON: 

PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AxVD COMPANY. 

1859. 






SOyRG£ UiiKNOWN 
••'Y 2 8 1S25 



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CONTENTS 



PAGK. 

The Excursion, 9 

Book the First 17 

Book the Second 47 

Book the Third, 75 

Book the Fourth, 105 

Book the Fifth 145 

Book the Sixth, 177 

Book the Seventh 213 

Book the Eighth 245 

Book the Ninth 264 

Peter Bell: a Tale, . 291 

The Idiot Boy, " . 333 

Michael: a Pastoral Poem, 351 

The Brothers, ... 369 

The Russian Fugitive, 385 

Goody Blake and Harry Gill : a True Story, . . 403 

Miscellaneous Poems, Sonnets, &c., 411 

The Somnambnlist, 411 

The Pet Lamb ; a Pastoral 417 

1* 



CONTENTS. 

PAOB. 

Hart-Leap WeU, 421 

Evening Ode 428 

Lines, on revisiting tiie Banks of Wye, . . . .431 

Stanzas on the Power of Sound, 436 

She was a Phantom of Delight, 444 

Ruth, 445 

Laodamia, 454 

Rob Roy's Grave, 460 

Yarrow Unvisited, 465 

YarroAv Visited, 467 

Yarrow Revisited, 470 

The Wishing-Gate, 474 

To the Dai^y, 477 

"We are Seven, 480 

Ode. — Intimations of Lnmortality from Recol- 
lections of early Childhood 483 

Alice Fell ; or, Poverty, 490 

Written after the Death of Charles Lamb, . . .493 

Ode to Duty, 497 

To a Sky-Lark, 499 

Sonnet. — Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you 

have fro^vned, 500 

Lucy, 500 

Lines, on the Depai'tixre of Sir Walter Scfitt from 

Abbotsford, for Naples 501 

"i'o Joanna 502 



CONTENTS 7 

PACi'. 

Elegiac Stanzas, 505 

A Poet's Epitaph, 508 

The Reverie of Poor Susan, oil 

To the Cuckoo, 512 

"bonnet, composed by the Sea-side, near Calais, . .51? 
To the Sons of Burns, after visiting the Grave of 

their Father, 514 

Sonnet. — Oh what a wTeck ! how changed in 

mien and speech! olfi 

The Farmer of Tilsbuiy Vale, 5 Hi 

Incident at Biniges, ri-yf- 

Sonnet. — Great men have been among us ; hands 

that penned, 522 

Grace Darling, o22 

Sonnet, from the Italian of oMichael Angelo, . . .526 

Glad sight ! wherever new with old, 526 

Sonnet. — Her only pilot the soft breeze, the 

boat, 527 

Sonnet, to Sleep, 507 

Presentiments, . . ,v2,S 

Memory, ,5;.j! 

Sonnet. — It is a beauteous evening, cahn and 

frfie, 532 

To a Sexton, 533 

Ode, composed on May Morning, 534 

Life 536 



8 COIWTEIITS. 

FAGB. 

Sonnet. — Alas! what boots the long laborious 

quest, 537 

The Rainbow 537 

Sonnet. — With ships the sea was sprinkled far 

and nigh« 533 

Written in March, while resting on the Bridge at 

the Foot of Brother's Water, 638 



THE EXCURSION 



BEmO A. PORTION OF 



THE RECLUSE 



THE RIGHT HONORABLE 

WILLIAM, EAEL OF LONSDALE, K. G., &C.. &C. 



Oft, through thy fair domains, ilhistrious Peer ! 
In youth I roamed, on youtliful pleasm-es bent ; 
And mused in rocky cell or sylvan tent, 
Beside swift-flowing Lowther's current clear. 
— Now, by thy care befriended, I appear 
Before thee, Lonsdale, and this Work present, 
A token, (may it prove a monument !) 
Of high respect and gratitude sincere. 
Gladly would I have waited till my task 
Had reached its close ; but Life is insecure. 
And Hope, full oft fallacious as a dream ; 
Therefore, for what is here produced I ask 
Thy favor ; trusting that thou wilt not deem 
The Offering, though imperfect, premature. 

William Wordswqrtk. 

RiDAL Mount, Westmorelaxu, 
Jdlt 29. 1814. 



THE EXCURSION. 



PREFACE. 



The Title-page announces that this is only a I'onion of 
a Poem ; and the Reader must be here apprised that it 
belongs to the second part of a long and laborious "Work, 
which is to consist of three parts. — The Author will can- 
didly acknowledge that, if the first of these had been com- 
pleted, and in such a manner as to satisfy his own mind, 
he should have preferred the natural order of publication, 
and have given that to the world first ; but, as the second 
division of the Work was designed to refer more to passing 
events, and to an existing state of things, than the others 
were meant to do, more continuous exertion was naturally 
bestowed upon it, and greater progress made here than in 
the rest of the Poem ; and as this part does not depend 
upon the preceding, to a degree which will materially in- 
jure its own peculiar interest, the Author, complying with 
the earnest entreaties of soiti<-> valued Friends, presents the 
following pages to the Public. 

It may be proper to state whence the Poem, of which 
The Excursion is a part, derives its Title of The Recluse. 
Several j-ears ago, when the Author retired to his native 
Movmtams, with the hope oi being enabled to construct a 
literary Work that might live, it was a reasonable thinp 
that he should take a re-vicAV of his own Mind, and exam 



12 



ine how far Nature and Ediicatiou had qualified liim foi 
Buch employment. As subsidiary to this preparation, he 
undertook to record, in Verse, the origin and progress of 
his own powers, as far as he was acquainted with them. 
That Work, addressed to a dear Friend, most distinguished 
for his knowledge and genius, and to whom the Author's 
Intellect is deeply indebted, has been long finished; and 
the result of the investigation which gave rise to it A^■as n 
determination to compose a philosophical Poem, contain- 
mg views of Man, Nature, and Society ; and to be entitled, 
The Recluse ; as having for its principal subject the sen- 
sations and opinions of a Poet living in retirement. — The 
preparatory Poem is biographical, and conducts the history 
of the Author's mind to the point when he was embold- 
ened to hope that his faculties were sufficiently matured 
for entering upon the arduous labor which he had pro- 
posed to hunself ; and the two Works have the same kind 
of relation to each other, if he may so express himself, as 
the Ante-chapel has to the body of a Gothic Church. 
Continuing this allusion, he may be permitted to add, that 
his minor Pieces, which have been long before the Public, 
when they shall be properly arranged, will be fo7 jid by the 
attentive Reader to have such connection with the main 
Work as may give them claim to be likened to the little 
cells, Oratories, and sepulchral Recesses, ordinarily in- 
cluded in those Edifices. 

The Author would not have deemed himself justified in 
saying, upon this occasion, so much of performances either 
unfinished, or unpublished, if he had not thought that the 
labor bestowed by him \ipon what he has heretofore and 
no^v laia before the Public, entitled him to candid atten- 
tion for such a statement as he thinks necessary to throw 
light upon his endeavors to please, and he would hope, to 
benefit his countrymen. — Nothing further need be added, 
than that the first and third parts of The Recluse will con- 
sist chiefly of meditations in the Author's own Person ; and 
that in the intermediate part (The Excursion) the inter 



PREFACE. 13 

vention of Characters speaking is employed, and sometMng 
of a dramatic form adopted. 

It is not the Author's intention formally to announce a 
system ; it was more animating to him tc proceed m a dif- 
ferent course ; and if he shall succeed in convoying to the 
"mind clear thoughts, lively images, and strong feelings, 
the Eeader will have no difficulty in extracting the system 
for himself. And in the meantime the following passage, 
taken from the conclusion of the first book of The Recluse, 
may be acceptable as a kind of Prospectus of the design 
and scope of the whole Poem : 

*♦ On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, 
Musing in Solitude, I oft perceive 
Fair trains of imagery before me rise, 
Accompanied by feelings of delight 
Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed ; 
And I am conscious of affecting thoughts 
And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes 
Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh 
The good and evil of our mortal state. 
— To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come, 
"V\'Tiether from breath of outward circumstance, 
Or from the Soul — an impulse to herself, 
I would give utterance in ntunerous Verse. 
Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope — 
And melancholy Pear subdued by Faith ; 
Of blessed consolations in distress ; 
Of moral strength, and intellectual Power ; 
Of joy in widest commonalty spread ; 
Of the individual Mind that keeps her own 
Inviolate retirement, subject there 
To Conscience only, and the law supreme 
Of that Intelhgence which governs all ; 
I sing — ' lit audience let me find, though few ! ' 

" So prayed, more gaining than he asked, the Bar<^U 
Holiest of Men, — Urania, I shall need 
2 



PREFACE. 

Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such 
Descend to earth or dwell ui highest heaven ! 
For I must tread on shadow'^- ground, must sink 
Deep — and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds 
To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. 
All strength — all terror, single or in bands, 
That ever was put forth in personal form ; 
Jehovah — with his thunder and the choir 
Of shouting Angels, and the empj-real thrones — 
I pass them unalarmed. Not Chaos, not 
The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, 
Nor aught of blinder vacancy — scooped out 
By help of dreams, can breed such fear and awe 
As fall upon us often when we look 
Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man, 
My haunt, and the main region of my Song. 

— Beauty — a living Presence of the eai-th, 
Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms 
Which craft of delicate Spirits hath composed 
From earth's materials — waits upon my steps : 
Pitches her tents before me as I move. 

An hourly neighbor. Paradise, and groves 
Elysian, Fortujiate Fields — like those of old 
Sought in the Atlantic Main, why should they be 
A history only of departed things. 
Or a mere fiction of what never was r 
For the discerning intellect of Man, 
When wedded to this goodly universe 
In love and holy passion, shall find these 
A simple produce of the common day. 

— I, long before the bhssful hour arrives, 
W^ould chant in lonely peace, the spousal verse 
Of this great consummation ; — and, by words 
"WTiich speak of nothing more than what we arc, 
Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep 

Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain 
To noble raptures ; while my voice proclaims 



How exquisitely the individual ISIind 

(And the progressive powers perhaps no less 

Of the whole species) to the external World 

Is fitted : — and how exquisitely, too, 

Theme tliis but little heard of among Men, 

The external World is fitted to the Mind ; 

And the creation (by no loAver name 

Can it be called) which they with blended might 

Accomjilish : — tliis is our high argument. 

— Such grateful havihts foregoing, if I oft 

Must turn elsewhere — to travel near the tribes 

And fellowships of men, and see ill sights 

Madding passions mutually inflamed ; 

Must he a humanity in fields and groves 

Pipe solitary anguish ; or must hang 

Brooding above the fierce confederate stonn 

Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore 

Within the walls of Cities ; may these sounds 

Have their authentic comment — that even these 

Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn ! 

Descend, prophetic Spirit ! that inspirest 

The human Soul of imiversal earth, 

Dreaming on things to come ; * and dost possess 

A metropolitan Temple in the hearts 

Of mighty Poets ; iipon me bestow 

A gift of genuine insight ; that my Song 

With star-like virtue in its place may sliine ; 

Shedding benignant influence, — and secure, 

Itself, from all malevolent effect 

Of those m,utations that extend their sway 

Throughout the nether sphere ! — And if with tli 

I mix more lowly matter ; with the thing 

Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man 



■ Not rrune own fears, nor the propheiic Soid 
Of the wide wo "Id dreaming on things to come. 

Suakspeare's Somicts 



16 PREPACK. 

Contemplating, and who, and what he was. 

The transitory Being that beheld 

This Vision, — when, and where, and how he lived ; - 

Be not this labor useless. If such theme 

^lay sort AAith highest objects, then, dread Power, 

^Vll0se gracious favor is the primal source 

Of all illumination, may my Life 

Express the image of a better time, 

More wise desires, and simpler manners ; — nurse 

My heart in genuine freedom : — All pure tliought» 

Be -with me ; — so shall thy unfailing love 

Guide and support, and cheer me to the end ! " 



THE EXCURSION. 



BOOK THE FIRST. 

THE WANDERER. 

AJIGIIMENT. 

A summer forenoon — The Author reaches a ruined Cotlaqc. upon a 
Common, and there meets with a revered Friend, the Wanduier, 
of whom he gives an account — The Wanderer, while resting umltT 
ihe shade of the trees that surround the Cottage, relates the History 
of its last Liiiabilant. 

TwAS summer, and the sun had mounted high : 
Southward the landscape indistinctly glared 
Through a pale steam : but all the northern downs, 
In clearest air ascending, showed far off 
A surface dappled o'er with shadows flung 
From brooding clouds ; shadows that lay in spots 
Determined and unmoved, with steady beams 
Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed ; 
Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss 
Extends his careless limbs along the front 
Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts 
A twilight of its own, an ample shade, 
VVher« the Wren warbles whi^e the breaming Man. 
9* 



lb Wordsworth's poems. 

Half conscious of the soothing' melody, 

With side-long eye looks out upon the scene. 

By power of that impending covert thrown 

I'o finer distance. Other lot was mine ; 

Yet with good hope thit soon I should obtain 

As grateful resting-place, and livelier joy. 

Across a bare wide Common I was toiling 

With languid steps that by the slippery ground 

Were baffled ; nor could my weak arm disperse 

The hosts of insects gathering round my face. 

And ever with me as I paced along. 

Upon that open level stood a Grove, 

The wished-for port to which my course was bo?? ad 

Thither I came, and there, amid the gloom 

Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elms. 

Appeared a roofless Hut : four naked walls 

That stared upon each other ! I looked round, 

And to my wish and to my hope espied 

Him whom I sought ; a Man of reverend age, 

But stout and hale, for travel unimpaired. 

There was he seen upon the Cottage bench. 

Recumbent in the shade as if asleep ; 

An iron-pointed staff lay at his side. 

Him had I marked the day before — alone 

And stationed in the public way, with face 

Turned toward the sun then setting, while that staif 

Afforded to the Figure of the Man 

Detained for contemplation or repose, 

Graceful support; his countenance meanwhile 

Was hidden from my view, and he remained 

Unrecognised ; but, stricken by the sight, 

With slackened footsteps I advanced, and soon 

A uiad congraLuialiou we cxcliui.^ei' 



Wordsworth's poems. 19 

At such unthought-of meeting-. — For the night 
We parted, nothing willingly ; and now 
He by appointment waited for me here 
Beneath the shelter of these clustering elms. 

We were tried Friends : amid a pleasant vale, 

In the antique market village where were passed 

My school-days, an apartment he had owned, 

To which at intervals the Wanderer drew. 

And found a kind of home or harbor there. 

He loved me ; from a swarm of rosy Boys 

Singled out me, as he in sport would say, 

For my grave looks — too thoughtful for my years. 

As I grew up, it was my best delight 

To be his chosen Comrade. Many a time, 

On holidays, we rambled through the woods: 

We sate — we walked ; he pleased me with report 

Of things which he had seen ; and often touched 

Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind, 

Turned inward ; or at my request would sing 

Old songs — the product of his native hills; 

A skilful distribution of sweet sounds, 

Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed 

As cool refreshing Water, by the care 

Of the industrious husbandman, diffused 

Through a parched meadow-ground, in time of drought 

Still deeper welcome found his pure discourse : 

How precious when in riper days I learned 

To weigh with care his words, and to rejoice 

In the plain presence of his dignity ! 

Oh ! many are the Poets that are sown 
By Nature ; Men endowed with highest gifts, 
The vision and the faculty divine : 
»'et wanting the acconipiidhment of Verse, 



iO Wordsworth's poems. 

(Which, in the docile season of their youth, 

It was denied them to acquire, through lack 

Of culture and the inspiring aid of books, 

Or haply by a temper too severe. 

Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame,) 

Nor having e'er, as life advanced, been led 

By circumstance to take unto the hcigiit 

The measure of themselves, these favored Beings, 

All but a scattered few, live out their time, 

Husbanding that which they possess within. 

And go to the graye, unthought of Strongest minds 

Are often those of whom the noisy world 

Hears least ; else surely this Man had not left 

His graces unrevealed and unproclaimed. 

But, as the mind was filled with inward light, 

So not without distinction had he lived, 

Beloved and honored — far as he was known. 

And some small portion of his eloquent speech, 

And something that may serve to set in view 

The feeling pleasures of his loneliness, 

His observations, and the thoughts his mind 

Had dealt with — I will here record in verse, 

Which, if with truth it correspond, and sink 

Or rise as venerable Nature leads, 

The high and tender Muses shall accept 

With gracious smile, deliberately pleased, 

And listening Time reward with sacred praise. 

Among the hills of Athol he was born; 

Where, on a small hereditary Farm, 

An unproductive slip of rugged ground. 

His Parents, with their numerous Offspring, dwelt , 

A virtuous Household, though exceeding poor ! 

Pure Livers were they all, austere and grave, 

And fearing God ; the very Children taught 



Wordsworth's poems. 21 

Stern self-respect, a reverence for God's word. 

And an habitual piety, maintained 

With strictness scarcely known on English ground. 

From his sixth year, the Boy of whom T speak, 

In summer tended cattle on the Hills • 

But, Liirough the inclement and the perilous days 

Of long-continuing winter, he repaired, 

Equipped with satchel, to a School, that stood 

Sole Building on a mountain's dreary edge. 

Remote from view of City spire, or sound 

Of Minster clock ! From that bleak Tenement 

He, many an evening, to his distant home 

In solitude returning, saw the Hills 

Grow larger in the darkness, all alone 

Beheld the stars come out above his head, 

And travelled through the wood, with no one near 

To whom he might confess the things he saw. 

So the foundations of his mind were laid. 

In such communion, not from terror free, 

While yet a Child, and long before his time, 

He had perceived the presence and the power 

Of greatness ; and deep feelings had impressed 

Great objects on his mind, with portraiture 

And color so distinct, that on his mind 

They lay like substances, and almost seemed 

To haunt the bodily sense. He had received 

A precious gift ; for, as he grew in years. 

With these impressions would he still compare 

All his remembrances, thoughts, shapes, and forms 

And, being still unsatisfied with aught 

Of dimmer character, he thence attained 

An active power to fasten images 

Upon his brain; and on their pictured lines 

Intensely brooded, even til they acquired 



22 Wordsworth's pof.ivts. 

The liveliness of dreams. Nor did he fail, 

While yet a Child, with a Child's eagerness, 

Incessantly to turn his ear and eye 

On all things which the moving seasons broLigh» 

To feed such appetite : nor t lis alone 

Appeased his yearning: — in the after day 

Of Boyhood, many an hour in caves forlorn, 

And 'mid the hollow depths of naked crags, 

He sate, and even in their fixed lineaments, 

Or from the power of a peculiar eye, 

Or by creative feeling overborne. 

Or by predominance of thought oppressed. 

Even in their jfixed and steady lineaments 

He traced an ebbing and a flowing mind. 

Expression ever varying ! 

Thus informed. 
He ha-d small need of books ; for many a Tale 
Traditionary, round the mountains hung. 
And many a Legend, peopling the dark woods. 
Nourished Imagination in her growth, 
And gave the Mind that apprehensive power 
By which she is made quick to recognize 
The moral properties and scope of things. 
But eagerly he read, and read again, 
Whate'er the Minister's old Shelf supplied ; 
The life and death of Martyrs, Avho sustained, 
With will inflexible, those fearful pangs 
Triumphantly displayed in records letl 
Of Persecution, and the Covenant — times 
Whose echo rings through Scotland to this hour! 
And there, by lucky hap, had been preserved 
A straggling volume, torn and incomplete, 
That left half-told the preternatural tale — 
Romance of Giants, chronicle of Fiends, 



Wordsworth's pof.:\ts. *23 

Profuse in 2ffii'niture of wooden cuts 
Strange and uncouth ; dire faces, figures dire, 
Sharp-ivnee'd, sharp-elbow'd, and lean-ankled too. 
With long and ghostly shanks — forms which once seen 
Could never be forgotten! 

In his heart, 
Where Fear sate thus, a cherished visitant, 
Was wanting yet the pure delight of love 
By sound diffused, or by the breathing air, 
Or by the silent looks of happy things. 
Or flowing from the universal face 
Of earth and sky. But he had felt the power 
Of Nature, and already was prepared, 
By his intense conceptions, to receive 
Deeply the lesson deep of love which he 
Whom Nature, by whatever means, has taught 
To feel intensely, cannot but receive. 

Such was the Boy — but for the growing Youth 

What soul was his, when, from the naked top 

Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun 

Rise up, and bathe the world in light ! He looked — 

Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 

And ocean's liquid mass, beneath him lay 

In gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touched 

And in their silent faces did he read 

Unutterable love. Sound needed none. 

Nor any voice of joy ; his spirit drank 

The spectacle : sensation, soul, and form, 

All melted into him; they swallowed up 

His animal being ; in them did he live. 

And by them did he live : they were his life. 

In such access of mind, in such high hour 

Of visitation from the living God. 



24 



Wordsworth's poems. 



Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired. 
No thanks he breathed, he proffered* no request; 
Rapt into still communion that transcends 
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
His mind was a thanksgiving to the power 
That made him ; it was blessedness and love ! 

A Herdsman on the lonely mountain tops, 

Such intercourse was his, and in this sort 

Was his existence oftentimes possessed. 

O then how beautiful, how bright appeared 

The written Promise ! Early had he learned 

To reverence the volume that displays 

The mystery, the life which cannot die ; 

But in the mountains did he feel his faith. 

A.11 things, responsive to the Writing, there 

Breathed immortality, revolving life. 

And greatness still revolving ; infinite ; 

There littleness was not; the least of things 

Seemed infinite ; and there his spirit shaped 

Her prospects ; nor did he believe — he saw. 

What wonder if his being thus became 

Sublime and comprehensive ! Low desires, 

Low thoughts had there no place ; yet was his neart 

Lowly ; for he was meek in gratitude, 

Oft as he called those ecstacies to mind. 

And whence they flowed ; and from them he acquircfl 

Wisdom, which works thro' patience ; thence he learr 'd, 

In oft-recurring hours of sober thought. 

To look on Nature with a humble heart 

Self-questioned where it did not understand, 

And with a superstitious eye of love. 

So passed the time ; yet to the nearest Town 
He duly went with what small overplus 



Wordsworth's pof.ms. 25 

His earning-s might supply, and brouo-ht away 
The Book that most had tempted his desires 
While at the stall he read. Among the hills 
He gazed upon that mighty Orb of Song, 
The divine Milton. Lore of different kind, 
The annual savings of a toilsome life, 
His Schoolmaster supplied ; books that explain 
The purer elements of truth involved 
In lines and numbers, and, by charm severe, 
(Especially perceived where Nature droops 
And feeling is suppressed,) preserve the mind 
Busy in solitude and poverty. 
These occupations oftentimes deceived 
The listless hours, while in the hollow vale, 
Hollow and green, he lay on the green turf 
In pensive idleness. What could he do. 
Thus daily thirsting, in that lonesome life, 
With blind endeavors ? Yet, still uppermost, 
Nature was at his heart, as if he felt, 
Though yet he knew not how, a wasting power 
In all things that from her sweet influence 
Might tend to wean him. Therefore, with her huea, 
Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms. 
He clothed the nakedness of austere truth. 
While yet he lingered in the rudiments 
Of science, and among her simplest laws. 
His triangles — they were the stars of heaven, 
The silent stars ! Oft did he take delight 
To measure the altitude of some tall crag 
That is the eagle's birth-place, or some peak 
Familiar, with forgotten years, that shows 
Inscribed, as with the silence of the thought, 
Upon its bleak and visionary sides. 
The history of many a winter storm. 
Or obscure records of the path of fire. 
3 



2n 



WORDSWORTH'S POP^MS. 



And thus, before his eighteenth year was told, 

Accumulated feelings pressed his heart 

With still increasing weight ; he was o'erpowered 

By Nature, by the turbulence subdued 

Of his own mind ; by mystery and hope, 

And the first virgin passion of a soul 

Communing with the glorious Universe. 

Full often wished he that the winds might rage 

When they were silent; far more fondly now 

Than in his earlier season did he love 

Tempestuous nights — the conflict and the sounds 

That live in darkness — from his intellect 

And from the stillness of abstracted thought 

He asked repose ; and, failing oft to win 

The peace required, he scanned the laws of light 

Amid the roar of torrents, where tliey send 

From hollow clefts up to the clearer air 

A cloud of mist, that, smitten by the sun. 

Varies its rainbow hues. But vainly thus. 

And vainly by all other means, he strove 

'^o mitigate the fever of bjs heart. 

In dreams, in study, and in ardent thougiit, 

Thus was he reared, much wanting to assist 

The growth of intellect, yet gaining more, 

And every moral feeling of his soul 

Strengthened and braced, by breathing in content 

The keen, the wholesome air of poverty. 

And drinking from the well of homely life. 

— But, from past liberty, and tried restraints, 

He now was summoned to select the course 

Of humble industry that promised best 

To yield him no unworthy maintenance. 

Urged by his Mother, he essayed to teach 

A Village school — but wandcmg thoughts w 3re then 



Wordsworth's poems. 27 

A misery to him ; and the Youth resigned 
A task he was unable to perform. 

That stern yet kindly Spirit who constrains 

The Savoyard to quit his native rocks, 

Tiie free-born Swiss to leave his narrow vales, 

(Spirit attached to regions mountainous, 

Like their own steadfast clouds,) did now impel 

His restless mind to look abroad with hope. 

— An irksome drudgery seems it to plod on. 

Through hot and dusty ways, or pelting storm, 

A vagrant Merchant bent beneath his load! 

Yet do such Travellers find their own delight ; 

And their hard service, deemed debasing now. 

Gained merited respect in simpler times; 

When Squire, and Priest, and they who round them 

dwelt, 
In rustic sequestration — all dependent 
Upon the Pedlar's toil — supplied their wants. 
Or pleased their fancies with the wares he brought. 
Not ignorant was the Youth that still no few 
Of his adventurous Countrymen Afere led 
By perseverance in this track of life 
T(i competence and ease ; — for him it bore 
Attractions manifold; — and this he chose. 
His Parents on the enterprise bestowed 
Their farewell benediction, but with hearts 
Foreboding evil. From his native hills 
He wandered far ; much did he see of Men, 
Their mnnners, their enjoyments, and pursuits. 
Their passions and their feelings ; chiefly those 
Essential and eternal in the heart. 
That, 'mid the simpler forms of rural life. 
Exist more simple in their elements. 
And speak a plainer language. In the woods, 



28 Wordsworth's poems 

A lone Enthusiast, and among the fields, 

Itinerant in this labor, he had passed 

The better portion of his time ; and there 

Spontaneously had his affections thriven 

Amid the bounties of the year, the peace 

And liberty of Nature ; there he kept, 

In solitude and solitary thought, 

His mind in a just equipoise of love. 

Serene it was, unclouded by the cares 

Of ordinary life; unvexed, unwarped 

By partial bondage. In his steady course, 

No piteous revolutions had he felt, 

No wild varieties of joy and grief. 

Unoccupied by sorrow of its own. 

His heart lay open ; and, by Nature tuned, 

And constant disposition of his thoughts, 

To sympathy with Man, he was alive 

To all that was enjoyed, where'er he went, 

And all that was endured ; for in himself 

Happy, and quiet in his cheerfulness, 

He had no painful pressure from without 

That made him turn aside from wretchedness 

With coward fears. He could afford to suffer 

With those whom he saw suffer. Hence it came 

That in our best experience he was rich, 

And in the wisdom of our daily life. 

For hence, minutely, in his various rounds, 

He had observed the progress and decay 

Of many minds, of minds and bodies too , 

The History of many Families ; 

How they had prospered; how they were o'erthrown 

By passion or mischance ; or such misrule 

Among the unthinking masters of the earth 

As makes the nations groan. This active course 

He followed till provision for his wants 



Wordsworth's poems. 29 

Had been obtained ; — the Wanderer then resolved 
To pass the remnant of his days — untasked 
With needless services — from hardship free. 
His calling laid aside, he lived at ease: 
But still he loved to pace the public roads 
And the wild paths ; and, by the summer's warmth 
Invited, often would he leave his home 
And journey far, revisiting the scenes 
That to his memory were most endeared. 
Vigorous in health, of hopeful spirits, undamped 
By worldiy-mindedness or anxious care ; 
Observiint, studious, thoughtful, and refreshed 
By knowledge gathered up from day to day; — 
Thus had he lived a long and innocent life. 

The Scottish Church, both on himself and those 

With whom from ciiildhood he grew up, had held 

The strong hand of her purity; and still 

Had watched him with an unrelenting eye. 

This he remembered in his riper age 

With gratitude and reverential thoughts. 

But by the native vigor of his mind, 

By his habitual wanderings out of doors, 

By loneliness, and goodness, and kind works, 

VVhate'cr, in docile childhood or in youth, 

Ho had imbibed of fear or darker thought, 

Was melted all away : so true was this, 

That sometimes his religion seemed to me 

Self-taught, as of a dreamer in the woods; 

Who to the model of his own pure heart 

Shaped his belief as grace divine inspired, 

Or human reason dictated with awe. 

— And surely never did there live on earth 

A man of kindlier natuie. The rough sports 

And teasing ways of CuHdren vexed not him 



30 



WORDSWORTH S POEMS. 



fndulg-ent listener was he to the tong-ue 

Of g-arrulous age ; nor did the sick man's tale, 

To his fraternal sympathy addressed, 

Obtain reluctant hearing. 

Plain his garb ; 
Such as might suit a rustic Sire, prepared 
For Sabbath duties ; yet he was a Man 
Whom no one could have passed without remark. 
Active and nervous was his gait ; his hmbs 
And his whole figure breathed intelligence. 
Time had compressed the freshness of his cheek 
Into a narrower circle of deep red, 
But had not tamed his eye ; that, under brows 
Shaggy and gray, had meanings which it brought 
From years of youth ; which, like a Being made 
Of many Beings, he had wondrous skill 
To blend with knowledge of the years to come. 
Human, or such as lie beyond the grave. 



So was He framed ; and such his course of life, 
Who now, with no Appendage but a Staff, 
The prized memorial of relinquished toils. 
Upon that Cottage bench reposed his limbs, 
Screened from the sun. Supine the Wanderer lay 
His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut. 
The shadows of the breezy elms above 
Dappling his face. He had not heard the sound 
Of my approaching steps, and m the shade 
Unnoticed did I stand, some minutes' space. 
At length I hailed him, seeing that his hat 
Was moist with v/ater-drops, as if the brim 
Had newly scooped a running stroani. He rose, 



Wordsworth's poems. ',i\ 

And ere our lively greeting into peace 

Had settled, " 'Tis," said I, "a barning day; 

My li[)S are parched with thirst, but you, it seems. 

Have somewhere found relief." He, at the word, 

{'ointing towards a sweet-briar, bade me climb 

The fence where that aspiring shrub looked out 

Uj)on the public way. It was a plot 

Of garden ground run wild, its matted weeds 

Marked with the steps of those, whou), as they passed. 

The gooseberry trees that shot in long lauk slips. 

Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems 

[n scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap 

The broken wall. I looked around, and there, 

Where two tall hedge-rows of tliick alder boughs 

Joined in a cool, damp nook, espied a Well 

Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern. 

My thirst I slaked, and from the cheerless spot 

W^ithdrawing, straightway to the shade returnoa 

Where sate the Old Man on the Cottage bench ; 

And, while beside him, with uncovered head, 

I yet was standing, freely to respire. 

And cool my temples in the fanning air. 

Thus did he speak: ''I see around me here 

Things which you cannot see: we die, my Fri'-nd, 

Nor we alone, but that w'hich each man loved 

And prized in his peculiar nook of earth 

Dies with him, or is changed ; and very soon 

Hven of the good is no ujemorial left. 

— The Poets, in their elegies and songs 

Lamenting the departed, call the groves. 

They call upon the hills and streams to mourn, 

And senseless rocks : nor idly ; for they speak, 

[n these their invocations, with a voice 

Obedient to the strong creative power 

Of huiuan p.ission. Symp.ithies there are 



32 



WORDSAVORTH S POEMS. 



More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, 
That steal upon the meditative mind, 
And grow with thought. Beside yon Spring I stood 
And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel 
One sadness, they and I. For them a bond 
Of brotherhood is broken ; time has been 
W^iien, every day, the touch of human hand 
Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up 
In mortal stillness ; and they ministered 
To human comfort. Stooping down to drink. 
Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied 
The useless fragment of a wooden bowl, 
Green with the moss of years, and subject only 
To the soft handling of the Elements : 
There let the relic lie — fond tliought — vain words 
Forgive them; — never — never did my steps 
Approach this door, but she who dwelt within 
A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her 
As my own child. Oh, sir! the good die first, 
i^And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust 
CBurn to the socket. Many a Passenger 
Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks. 
When she upheld the coo! refreshment drawn 
From that forsaken Spring ; and no one came 
But he was welcome ; no one went away 
But that it seemed she loved him. She is dead. 
The light extinguished of her lonely Hut, 
The Hut itself abandoned to decay, 
And She forgotten in the quiet grave ! 

" I speak," continued he, " of One whose stock 
Of virtues bloomed beneath this lowly roof. 
She was a Woman of a steady mind, 
Tender and 'deep in her excess of love. 
Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. AJ 

Of her own thoughts : by some especial care 

Her temper had been framed, as if to make 

A Being — who, by adding love to peace, 

Might live on earth a life of happiness. . 

Her wedded Partner lacked not on his side 

The humble worth that satisfied her heart: 

Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal 

Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell 

That he was often seated at his loom, 

In summer, ere the Mower was abroad 

Among the dewy grass — in early spring, 

Ere the last Star had vanished. They who passed 

At evening, from behind the garden fence 

Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply, 

After his daily work, until the light 

Had failed, and every leaf and flower were lost 

In the dark hedges. So their days were spent 

In peace and comfort ; and a pretty Boy 

Was their best hope — next to the God in Heaven 

" Not twenty years ago, — but you I think 

Can scarcely bear it now in mind, — there came 

Two blighting seasons, when the fields were left 

With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to add 

A worse affliction in the plague of war ; 

This happy land was stricken to the heart! 

A Wanderer then among the Cottages 

I, wim my freight of winter raiment, saw" 

The hardships of that season ; many rich 

Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor ; 

And of the poor did many cease to be. 

And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridged 

Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled 

To numerous self-denials, Margaret 

Went struggling on through those calamitous years 



J4 Wordsworth's poems. 

With cheerful hope, until the second autumn. 

When her life's Helpmate on a sick-bed lav 

Smitten with perilous fever. In disease 

He lingered long; and when his strength returned 

He found the little he had stored, to meet 

The hour of accident or crippling age, 

Was all consumed. A second Infant now 

Was added to the troubles of a time 

Laden, for them and all of their degree, 

With care and sorrow ; shoals of Artisans 

From ill-requited labor turned adrift, 

Sought daily bread from public charity, 

They,, and their wives and children — happier far 

Could they have lived as do the little birds 

That peck along the hedge-rows, or the Kite 

That makes her dwelling on the mountain Rocks. 

" A sad reverse it was for Him who long 
Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace, 
This lonely Cottage. At his door he stood, 
And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes 
That had no mirth in them ; or with his knife 
Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks ; 
Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook 
In house or garden, any casual work 
Of use or ornament; and with a strange, 
Amusing, yet uneasy novelty. 
He blended, where he might, the various tasks 
Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. 
But this endured not ; his good humor soon 
Became a weight in which n pleasure was: 
And poverty brought on a petted mood 
And a sore temper; day by day he drooped, 
And he would leave his work, and to the Town, 
Without an errand, would direct his steps, 



Wordsworth's poems. 35 

Or wander here and there among the fields. 
One while he would speak lightly of his Babes, 
And with a cruel tongue : at other times 
He tossed them with a false, unnatural joy ; 
And 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks 
Of the poor innocent children. ' Every smile,* 
Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees, 
'Made my heart bleed.'" 

At this the Wanderer paused ; 
And, looking up to those enormous Elms, 
He said, "'Tis now the hour of deepest noon. 
At this still season of repose and peace. 
This hour when all things which are not at rest 
Are cheerful ; while this multitude of flies 
Is filling all the air with melody ; 
Why should a tear be in an Old Man's eye ? 
Why should we thus, with an untoward mind. 
And in the weakness of humanity, 
From natural wisdom turn our hearts away, 
To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears, 
And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb 
The calm of nature with our restless thoughts ? " 
He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone ; 
But, when he ended, there was in his face 
Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild, 
That for a little time it stole away 
All recollection, and that simple Tale 
Passed from my mind like ji^forgotten souna. 
A while on trivial things we held discourse. 
To me soon tasteless. In my own despite. 
"I thought of that poor Woman as of one 
Whom I had known and loved. He had rehearsed 
Her homely Tale with such familiar power. 
With such an active countenance, an ey-^ 



36 Wordsworth's poems. 

So busy, that the things of which he spake 
Seemed present ; and, attention now relaxed, 
A heart-felt chillness crept along my veins. 
f rose ; and, having left the breezy shade, 
Stood drinking comfort from the warmer sun 
That had not cheered me long, ere, looking round 
Upon that tranquil Ruin, I returned, 
And begged of the Old Man that, for my sake. 
He would resume his story. 

He replied, 
•' It were a wantonness, and would demand 
Severe reproof, if we were Men whose hearts 
Could hold vain dalliance with the misery 
Even of tlie dead ; contented thence to draw 
A momentary pleasure, never marked 
By reason, barren of all future good. 
But we have known that there is often found 
In mournful thoughts, and always might be found, 
A power to virtue friendly ; Avere't not so, 
I am a dreamer among men, indeed 
An idle Dreamer! 'Tis a common Tale, 
An ordinary sorrow of Man's life, 
A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed 
In bodily form. But v/ithout further bidding 
I will proceed. 

" While thus it fared with them, 
To whom this Cottage, till those hapless years, 
Had been a blessed home, it was my chance 
To travel in a Country far remote; 
And when these lofty Elms once more appeared, 
VVhat pleasant expectations lured me on 
O'er the flat Common ! With quick step I reached 
The threshold, lifted v/ith light hand the latch ; 



Wordsworth's poems. 37 

But, when I entered Margaret looked at me 
A little while ; then turned her head away 
Speechless, — and, sitting- down upon a chair, 
Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do. 
Nor how to speak .0 her. Poor Wretch ! at last 
She rose from off iier seat, and then, — O Sir! 
I cannot tell hov/ she pronounced my name : 
With fervent love, and with a face of grief 
Unutterably helpless, and a look 
That seemed to cling upon me, she inquired 
ff I had seen her Husband. As she spake 
A strange surprise and fear came to my heart; 
Nor had I power to answer ere she told 
That he had disappeared — not two months gone. 
He left his House: two wretched days had past, 
And on the third, as wistfully she raised 
Her head from off her pillow, to look forth, 
Like one in trouble, for returning light. 
Within her chamber-casement she espied 
A folded paper, lying as if placed 
To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly 
She opened — found no writing, but beheld 
Pieces of money carefully enclosed. 
Silver and gold. ' I shuddered at the sight,' 
Said Margaret, 'for I knew it was his hand 
Which placed it there: and ere that day was endedj 
That long and anxious day! I learned from One 
Sent hither by my Husband to impart 
The heavy news, — that he had joined a Troop 
Of Soldiers, gomg to a distant Land. 
— He left me thus — he could not gather heart 
To take a farewell of me ; for he feared 
That I should follow with my Babes, and sink 
Beneath the misery of that wandering Life.' 
4 



38 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 



•'This Tale did Margaret tell with many tears. 

And, when she ended, I had little power 

To give her comfort, and was glad to take 

Such words of hope from her own mouth as served 

To cheer us both: — but long we had not talked 

Ere we built up a pile of bettor thoughts, 

An<l with a brighter eye she looked around, 

As if she had been shedding tears of joy. 

We parted. — 'Twas the time of early spring; 

I left her busy with her garden tools; 

And well remember, o'er that fence she looked, 

And, while I paced along the foot-way path, 

Called out, and sent a blessing after me,. 

With tender cheerfulness ; and with a voice 

That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts. 

"I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale, 

With my accustomed load ; in heat and cold, 

Through many a wood, and many an open ground, 

(n sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair, 

Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befal ; 

My best companions now the driving winds. 

And noAv the 'trotting brooks' and whispering trees, 

And now the music of my own sad steps. 

With many a short-lived thought that passed between, 

And disappeared. I journeyed back this way, 

When, in the warmth of Midsummer, the wheat 

Was yellow ; and the soft and b laded grass, 

Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field spread 

Its tender verdure. At the door arrived, 

[ found thpt she was absent. In the shade, 

Where now we sit, I waited her return. 

Her Cottage, then a cheerful Object, wore 

Us customary look, — only, it seemed, 

The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch, 



Wordsworth's poems. 39 

Hung down in heavier tufts ; and that bright weed, 

The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take root 

Along the window's edge, profusely grew, 

Blinding the lower panes. I turned aside, 

And strolled into her garden. It appeared 

To lag behind the season, and had lost 

[ts pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift 

Had broken their trim lines, and straggled o'er 

The paths they used to deck: carnations, once 

Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less 

For the peculiar pains they had required. 

Declined their languid heads, wanting support. 

The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths and Dells, 

Had twined about her two small rows of pease, 

And dragged them to the earth. Ere' this an hour 

Was wasted. Back I turned my restless steps ; 

A Stranger passed ; and, guessing whom I sought, 

He said that she was used to ramble far. 

The sun was sinking in the west; and now 

[ sate with sad impatience. From within 

Her solitary Infant cried aloud ; 

Then, like a blast that dies away self-stilled, 

The voice was silent. From the bench I rose ; 

But neither could divert nor soothe my thoughts. 

The spot, though fair, was very desolate — 

The longer I remained, more desolate ; 

And, looking round me, now I first observed 

Tlie corner stones, on either side the porch, 

Wili-i dull red stains discolored, and stuck o'er 

With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the Sheep, 

That fed upon the Common, thither came 

Familiarly ; and found a couching-place 

Even at her threshold. Deeper shadows fell 

From these tall elms ; the Cottage clock struck eight -— 

[ turned, and saw her distant a few steps. 



40 Wordsworth's poems. 

Her face was pale and thin; her figure, too, 

Was changed. As she unlocked the door, she said, 

'It grieves me you have waited here so long; 

But, in good truth, I've wandered much of late, 

And, sometimes — to my shame I speak — have need 

Of my best prayers to bring me back again.' 

Wliile on the board she spread our evening meal, 

She told me — interrupting not the work 

Which gave employment to her listless hands — 

That she had parted with her elder Child; 

To a kind master on a distant farm, 

Now happily apprenticed. 'I perceive 

You look at me, and you have cause ; to-day 

I have been travelling f\ir ; and many days 

About the fields I wander, knowing this 

Only, — that what I seek I cannot find ; 

And so I waste my time — for I am changed; 

And to myself,' said she, ' have done much wrong, 

And to this helpless Infant. I have slept 

Weeping, and weeping have I waked ; my tears 

Have flowed as if my body were not such 

As others are; and I could never die. 

But I am now in mind and in my heart 

More easy ; and I hope,' said she, ' that God 

Will give me patience to endure the things 

Which I behold at home.' It would have grieved 

Your very soul to see her; Sir, I feel 

Tlie story linger in my heart; I fear 

'Tis long and tedious ; but my spirit clings 

To that poor Woman: — so familiarly 

Do I perceive her manner, and her look. 

And presence, and so deeply do I feel 

Her goodness, tiuit, not seldom, in my walks, 

A momentary trance comes over me; 

And to myself I seem to muse on One 



Wordsworth's poems. 4] 

By sorrow laid asleep — or borne away, 

A human being destined to awake 

To human life, or something very near 

To human life, when he shall come again 

For whom she suffered. Yes, it Avould have grieved 

Your very soul to see her; evermore 

Her eyelids drooped, her eyes were downward cast, 

And, when she at her table gave me food, 

She did not look at me. Her voice was low, 

Her body was subdued. In every act 

Pertaining to her house affairs, appeared 

The careless stillness of a thinking mind 

Self-occupied ; to which all outward things 

Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed, 

But yet no motion of the breast was seen, 

No heaving of the heart. While by the fire 

We sate together, sighs came on my ear, 

I knew not how, and hardly whence they came. 

"Ere my departure, to her care I gave. 
For her son's use, some tokens of regard. 
Which with a look of welcome she received ; 
And I exhorted her to place her trust 
In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer. 
I took my staff, and when I kissed her babe 
The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then. 
With the best hope and comfort I could give ; 
She tbanked me for my wish — but for my hope 
Methought she did not tliank me. 

"I retarned, 
And took my rounds along this road again 
Ere on its sunny bank the primrose llower 
Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the spring. 
I found her sad and d looping ; she had learned 



42 Wordsworth's poems. 

No tidings of her Husband ; if he lived, 

She knew not that he lived ; if he were dead, 

She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same 

In person and appearance ; but her House 

Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence ; 

The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth 

Was comfortless, and her small lot of books. 

Which, in the Cottage window, heretofore 

Had been piled up against the corner panes 

In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves, 

Lay scattered here and there, open or shut. 

As they had chanced to fall. Her infant Babe 

Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief. 

And sighed among its playthings. Once again 

I turned towards the garden gate, and saw 

More plainly still, that poverty and grief 

Were now come nearer to her: weeds defaced 

The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass : 

No ridges there appeared of clear black mould. 

No winter greenness ; of her herbs and flowers, 

It seemed the better part were gnawed away 

Or trampled into earth ; a chain of straw 

Which had been twined about the slender stem 

Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root ; 

The bark was nibbled round by truant Sheep. 

— Margaret stood near, her Infant in her arms, 

And, noting that my eye was on the tree, 

She said, 'I fear it will be dead and gone 

Ere Robert come again.' Towards the House 

Together we returned ; and she inquired 

If I had any hope. But for her Babe, 

And for her little orphan Boy, she said. 

She had no wish to live — that she must die 

Of sorrow ! Yet I saw the idle loom 

Still in its place ; his Sunday garments hung 



Wordsworth's poems. 43 

Upon the self-same nail ; his very staff 

Stood undisturbed behind the door. And when, 

In bleak December, I retraced this way, 

She told me that her little Babe was dead, 

And she was left alone. She now, released 

Fr:)m her maternal cares, had taken up 

Tiie employment common through these Wilds, and 

g'ained, 
By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself; 
And for this end had hired a neighbor's Boy 
To give her needful help. That very time 
Most willingly she put her work aside, 
And walked with me along the miry road, 
Heedless how far; and in such piteous sort 
That any heart had ached to hear her, begged 
That, wheresoe'er I went, I still would ask 
For him whom she had lost. We parted then — 
Our final partinn- • for, from that time forth. 
Did many seasons pass ere I returned 
Into this tract again. ^ 

"Nine tedious years; 
From their first separation, nine long years; 
She lingered in unquiet widowhood ; 
A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been 
A sore heart-wasting! I have heard, my Friend 
That in yon arbor oftentimes she sate 
Alone, through half the vacant Sabj)ath day, 
And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit 
The shade, and look abroad. On this old Bench 
For hours she sate ; and evermore her 6)^6 
Was busy in the distance, shaping things 
That made her heart beat quick. You see that path 
Now faint — the grass has crept o'er its gray line; 
There, to and fro, she pacd through many a day 



44 WORDSWORTH S P0EM3 

Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp 

That girt her waist, spinning the long-drawn thread 

With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed 

A man whose garments showed the soldier's red, 

Or crippled Mendicant in Sailor's garb, 

The little Child who sate to turn the wheel 

Ceased from his task; and she with faltering voice 

Made many a fond inquiry ; and when they, 

Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by, 

Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate, 

That bars the Traveller's road, she often stood, 

And when a stranger Horseman came, the latch 

Would lift, and in his face look wistfully ; 

Most happy if, from aught discovered there 

Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat 

The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Hut 

Sank to decay: for he was gone whose hand. 

At the first nipping of October frost. 

Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw 

Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived 

Through the long winter, reckless and alone ; 

Until her House by frost, and thaw, and rain. 

Was sapped ; and while she slept, the nightly damps 

Did chill her breast; and in the stormy day 

Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind. 

Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still 

She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds 

Have parted hence: and still that length of road. 

And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeared, 

Fast rooted at her heart : and here, my Friend, 

In sickness she remained ; and here she died, 

Last human tenant of these ruined Walls." 

The Old Man ceased: he saw that I was moved. 
From that low Bench, rising instinctively, 



Wordsworth's poems 45 

I turned aside in weakness, nor had power 

To thank him for the Tale which he had told. 

I stood, and leaning o'er the Garden wall, 

Reviewed that Woman's sufferings ; and it seemed 

To comfort me while with a Brother's love 

I blessed her — in the impotence of grief. 

At length towards the Cottage I returned 

Fondly, — and traced, with interest more mild, 

That secret spirit of humanity 

Which, 'mid the calm, oblivious tendencies 

Of nature, 'mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers, 

And silent overgrowings, still survived. 

The Old Man, noting this, resumed, and said, 

" My Friend ! enough to sorrow you have given ; 

The purposes of wisdom ask no more : 

Be wise and cheerful ; and no longer read 

The forms of things with an unworthy eye. 

She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. 

I well remember that those very plumes, 

Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall, 

By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er, 

As once I passed, did to my heart convey 

So still an image of tranquillity, 

So calm and still, and looked so beautiful 

Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind, 

That what we feel of sorrow and despair. 

From ruin and from change, and all the grief 

The passing shows of Being leave behind, 

Appeared an idle dream, that could not live 

Where meditation was. I turned away. 

And walked along my road in happiness." 

He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot 
A slant and mellow radiance, which began 
To fall upon us while beneath the treea 



46 Wordsworth's poems. 

We sate on that low Bench ; and now we felt 
Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on. 
A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, 
A thrush sang loud, and other melodies, 
At distance heard, peopled the milder air. 
The Old Man rose, and, with a sprightly tniec 
Of hopeful preparation, grasped his Staff: 
Together casting then a farewell look 
Upon those silent walls, we left the Shade ; 
And, ere the stars were visible, had reached 
A Village Inn — our Evening resting-place. 



THE EXCURSION. 



BOOK THE SECOND. 

THE SOLITARY. 

AUGUISIENT. 

T}ie Auihor describes his travels with the Wanderer, whose charactei 
is further illustrated — Morning: scene, and view of a Village Wake 

— Wanderer's account of a Friend whom he purposes to visit — 
View, from an eminence, of the Valley which his Friend had chosen 
for his retreat — Feelings of the Author at the sight of it — Sound ol 
•ingingfrom below — A funeral procession — Descent mto the Valley 

— Observations drawn from the Wanderej at sight of a Book acci- 
dentally discovered in a recess in the Valley — Meeting with the 
Wanderer's friend, the Solitary — Wanderer's description of the 
mode r.f burial in this mountainous district — Solitary contrasts with 
this, that of the Individual carried a few minutes before from the 
Cottage — Brief conversation — The Cottage entered — Descripiion 
of the Solitary's apartment — Repast there — View from the window 
of two mcxintain summits — and the Solitary's description of the 
Companionship they afford him — Account of the departed Iimiate oi 
the Cottage — Description of a grand spectacle upon the mountains, 
with its effect upon the Solitary's mind — Quit the House. 

In days of yore how fortunately fared 
The Minstrel! wandering on from Hall to Hall, 
Baronial Court or Royal ; cheered Avith gifts 
Munificent, and love, and Ladies' praise ; 



48 WORDSWORTH S POEMS. 

Now meeting on his road an armed Knight, 

Now resting with a Pilgrim by the side 

Of a clear brook; — beneath an Abbey's roof 

One evening sumptuously lodged ; the next 

Humbly in a religious Hospital ; 

Or with some merry Outlaws of the wood ; 

Or haply shrouded in a Hermit's cell. 

Him, sleeping or awake, the Robber spared; 

He walked — protected from the sword of war 

By virtue of that sacred Instrument, 

His Harp, suspended at the Traveller's side ; 

His dear companion wheresoe'er he went, 

Opening from Land to Land an easy way, 

By melody, and by the charm of verse. 

Yet, not the noblest of that honored Race 

Drew happier, loftier, more impassioned thoughts 

From his long journeyings and eventful life. 

Than this obscure Itinerant had skill 

To gather, ranging through the tamer ground 

Of these our unimaginative days ; 

Both while he trod the earth in humblest guise, 

Accoutred with his turthen and his staff; 

And now, when free to move with lighter pace. 

What wonder, then, if I, whose favorite School 
Hath been the fields, the roads, and rural lanes, 
Looked on this Guide with reverential love ? 
Each with the other pleased, we now pursued 
Our journey — beneath favorable skies. 
Turn wheresoe'er we would, he was a light 
Unfailing ; not a Hamlet could we pass. 
Rarely a House, that did not yield to him 
Remembrances ; or from his tongue call forth 
Some way-beguiling tale. Nor less regard 
Accompanied those strains of apt discourse 



Wordsworth's poems. 49 

Which Nature's various objects mig'ht inspire ^ 
And in the silence of his face I read 
His overflowing spirit. ' Birds and beasts 
And the mute fish that glances in the stream 
And harmless reptile coiling in the sun, 
And gorgeous insect hovering in the air, 
The fowl domestic, and the household dog, 
Ln his capacious mind — he loved them all; 
Their rights acknowledging, he felt for all. 
Oft was occasion given me to perceive 
How the calm pleasures of the pasturing Herd 
To happy contemplation soothed his walk ; 
How the poor Brute's condition, forced to run 
Its course of suffering in the public road, — 
Sad contrast ! all too often smote his heart 
With unavailing pity. Rich in love 
And sweet humanity, he was, himself. 
To the degree that he desired, beloved. 

— Greetings and smiles we met with all day long, 
From faces that he knew ; we took our seats 

By many a cottage hearth, where he received 
The welcome of an Inmate com^ from far. 

— Nor was he loth to enter ragged Huts, 
Huts where his charity was blest; his voice 
Heard as the voice of an experienced Friend. 
And, sometimes, where the Poor Man held dispute 
With his own mind, unable to subdue 
Inipat^.ence, through inaptness to perceive 
Generax distress in his particular lot; 

Or cherishing resentment, or in vain 
Struggling against it, with a soul perplexed, 
And finding in himself no steady power 
To draw the line of comfort that divides 
Calamity, the chastisement of Heaven, 
From the injustice of our brother men ; 
5 



50 Wordsworth's poem?. 

To Him appeal was made, as to a jiidg'e, 

Who, with an understanding heart, allayed 

The perturbation ; iistened to the plea ; 

Resolved the dubious point ; and sentence gave 

So grounded, so applied, that it was heard 

With softened spirit — even when it condemned. 

Such intercourse I witnessed, while we roved, 

Now as his choice directed, now as mine ; 

Or both, with equal readiness of will, 

Our course submitting to the changeful breeze 

Of accident. But when the rising sun 

Had three times called us to renew our walk, 

My Fellow-traveller, with earnest voice. 

As if the thought were but a moment old, 

Claimed absolute dominion for the day. 

We started — and he led towards the hills, 

Up through an ample vale, with higher hills 

Before us, mountains stern and desolate ; 

But, in the majesty of distance, now 

Set off, and to our ken appearing ftiir 

Of aspect, with aerial softness clad, 

And beautified with morning's purple beams. 

The Wealthy, the Luxurious, by the stress 
Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their time, 
May roll in chariots, or provoke the hoofs 
Of the fleet coursers they bestride, to raise 
From earth the dust of morning, slow to rise ; 
And They, if blest with health and hearts at ease, 
Shall lack not their enjoyment — but how faint 
Compared with ours ! who, pacing side by side. 
Could, with an eye of leisure, look on all 
That we beheld ; and lend the listening sense 
To every grateful sound of earth and air ; 
Pausing at will — our spirits braced, our thoughts 



WORDSWORTflS POEMS. 

Pleasant aa roses in the thickets blown, 

And pure as dew bathing their crimson leaves. 

Mount slowly, Sun ! that we may journey long, 
By this dark hill protecte i from thy beams ! 
Such is the summer Pilgr'.m's frequent wish; 
But quickly from among our morning thoughts 
'Twas chased away : for, toward the western side 
Of the broad Vale, casting a casual glance, 
We saw a throng of People ; — wherefore met ? 
Blithe notes of music, suddenly let loose 
On the thrilled ear, and flags uprising, yield 
Prompt answer : they proclaim the annual Wake, 
Which the bright season favors. Tabor and Pipe 
In purpose join to hasten and reprove 
The laggard Rustic ; and repay with boons 
Of merriment a parti colored Knot, 
Already formed upon the Village green. 
— Beyond the limits of the shadow cast 
By the broad hill, glistened upon our sight 
That gay assemblage. Round them and above, 
Glitter, with dark recesses interposed, 
Casement, and cottage-roof, and stems of trees 
Half-veiled in vapory cloud, the silver steam 
Of dews fast melting on their leafy boughs 
By the strong sunbeams smitten. Like a mast 
Of gold, the Maypole shines ; as if the rays 
Of morning, aided by exhaling dew, 
With gladsome influence could re-animate 
The faded garlands dangling from its sides. 

Said I, " The music and the sprightly scene 
Invite us ; shall we quit our road, and join 
These festive matins ? " — He replied, " Not lotb 
Here would I linger and with you partake, 



52 Wordsworth's poems. 

Not one hour merely, but till evening's close. 

The simple pastimes of the day and place. 

By the fleet Racers, ere the Sun be set, 

The turf of yon large pasture will be skimmed; 

There, too, the lusty Wrestlers shall contend; 

Bat know we not that he, who intermits 

The appointed task and duties of the day,. 

Untunes full oft the pleasures of the day ; 

Checking- the finer spirits tiiat refuse 

To flow, when purposes are lightly changed ? 

We must proceed — a length of journey yet 

Remains untraced." Then, pointing with his staff 

Raised toward those craggy summits, his intent 

He thus imparted. 

" In a spot that lies 
Among yon mountain fastnesses concealed, 
You will receive, before the hour of noon, 
Good recompense, I hope, for this day's toil — 
From sight of One vv'ho lives secluded there, 
Lonesome and lost: of whom, and whose past life, 
(Not to forestall such knowledge as may be 
More faithfully collected from himself,) 
This brief communication shall suffice. 

"Though now sojourning there, he, like myself, 
Sprang from a stock of lowly parentage 
Among the wilds of Scotland, in a tract 
Where many a sheltered and well-tended plant 
Bears, on the humblest ground of social life, 
Blossoms of piety and innocence. 
Such grateful promises his youth displayed, 
And, having shown in study forward zeal, 
He to the Ministry was duly called ; 
And straight, incited by a curious mmd 



WORDSWORTH S POKMS. 53 

Filled with vague hopes, he undertook the charge 

Of Chaplain to a Military Troop, 

Cheered by the Highland Bagpipe, as they marched 

In plaided vest — his Fellow-countrymen. 

Tliis OfBce filling, yet by native power. 

And force of native inclination, made 

An intellectual Ruler in the haunts 

Of social vanity — he walked the World, 

Gay, and affecting graceful gayety : 

Lax, buoyant — less a Pastor with his Flock 

Than a Soldier among Soldiers — lived and roamed 

Where fortune led: — and Fortune, who oft proves 

The careless Wanderer's Friend, to him made known 

A blooming Lady — a conspicuous Flower, 

Admired for beauty, for her sweetness praised; 

Whom he had sensibility to love. 

Ambition to attempt, and skill to win. 

"For this fair Bride, most rich in gifts of mind, 
Nor sparingly endowed with worldly wealth. 
His Office he relinquished ; and retired 
From the world's notice to a rural Home. 
Youth's season yet with him was scarcely past. 
And she was in youth's prime. How full their joy. 
How free their love! nor did that love decajr, 
Nor joy abate, till — pitiable doom ! 
In the short course of one undreaded year. 
Death blasted all. Death suddenly o'erthrew 
Two lovely Children — all that they possessed. 
The Mother followed : — miserably bare 
The one Survivor stood — he wept, he prayed 
For his dismissal ; day and night, compelled 
By pain to turn liis thoughts towards the grave, 
And face the regions of Eternity. 
An uncomplaining apathy displaced 
5* 



tA 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 



This anguish; and, indifferent to delight, 
To aim and purpose, he consumed his days, 
To private interest dead, and public care. 
So lived he ; so he might have died. 

" But now, 
To the wide world's astonishment, appeared 
A glorious opening, the unlooked-for dawn, 
That promised everlasting joy to France ! 
Her voice of social- transport reached even hira ! 
He broke from his contracted bounds, repaired 
To the great City, an Emporium then 
Of golden expectations, and receiving 
Freights every day from a new world of hope. 
Thither his popular talents he transferred ; 
And, from the Pulpit, zealously maintained 
The cause of Christ and civil liberty. 
As one, and moving to one glorious end. 
Intoxicating service! I might say 
A happy service; for he was sincere 
As vanity and fondness for applause. 
And new and shapeless wishes, would allow. 

"That righteous Cause (such power hath Freedom 

bound, 
For one hostility, in friendly league 
Ethereal Natures and the worst of Slaves ; ) 
Was served by rival Advocates that came 
From regions opposite as heaven and hell. 
One courage seemed to animate them all : 
And, from the dazsling conquests daily gained 
By their united efforts, there arise 
A proud and most presumptuous confidence 
In the transcendent wisdom of tne age, 
And her discernment; not alone in riphti:', 



Wordsworth's poems. 55 

And in the origin and bounds of power 

Social and temporal; but in laws divine, 

Deduced by reason, or to faith revealed, 

An overweening trust was raised; and fear 

Cast out, alike of person and of thing. 

Plague from this union spread, whose subtle bane 

The strongest did not easily escape ; 

And He, what wonder! took a mortal taint. 

How shall I trace the change, how bear to tell 

That he broke faith with them whom he had laid 

In earth's dark chambers, with a Christian's hope ! 

An infidel contempt of holy writ 

Stole by degrees upon his mind ; and hence 

Life, like that Roman Janus, doubled-faced ; 

Vilest hypocrisy, the laughing, gay 

Hypocrisy, not leagued with fear, but pride. 

Smooth words he had to wheedle simple souls; 

But, for disciples of the inner school, 

Old freedom was old servitude, and they 

The wisest whose opinions stooped the least 

To known restraints : and who most boldly drew 

Hopeful prognostications from a creed, 

That, in the light of false philosophy. 

Spread like a halo round a misty moon, 

Widening its circle as the storms advance. 

' His sacred function was at length renounced • 

And every day and every place enjoyed 

The unshackled Layman's natural liberty; 

Speech, manners, morals, all without disguise. 

I do not wish to wrong him ; — though the course 

Of private life licentiously displayed 

Vnhallowed actions — planted like a crown 

Upon the insolent aspiring brow 

Of spurious notions — worn as open signs 



bd Wordsworth's poems. 

Of prejudice subdued — he still retained 

'Mid such abasement, what he had received 

From nature — an intense and glowing mind. 

Wherefore, when humbled Liberty grew weak, 

And mortal sickness on her face appeared, 

He colored objects to his own desire 

As with a Lover's passion. Yet his moods 

Of pain were keen as those of better men, 

Nay, keener — as his fortitude was less. 

And he continued, when worse days were come, 

To deal about his sparkling eloquence. 

Struggling against the strange reverse with zeal 

That showed like happiness ; but, in despite 

Of all this outside bravery, within, 

He neither felt encouragement nor hope: 

For moral dignity, and strength of mind. 

Were wanting ; and simplicity of Life ; 

And reverence for himself; and, last and best. 

Confiding thoughts, through love and fear of Him 

Before whose sight the troubles of this world 

Are vain as billows in a tossing sea. 

" The glory of the times fading away. 
The splendor which had given a festal air 
To self-importance, hallowed it, and veiled 
From his own sight, — this gone, he forfeited 
All joy in human nature ; was consumed. 
And vexed, and chafed, by levity and scorn. 
And fruitless indignation ; galled by pride ; 
Made desperate by contempt of Men who throve 
Before his sight in power or fame, and won. 
Without desert, what he desired; weak men, 
Too weak even for his envy or his hate ! 
Tormented thus, after a wandering course 
Of discontent, and inwardly opprest • 



Wordsworth's poems. 57 

With malady — in part, I fear, provoked 
By weariness of life, he fixed his Home, 
Or, rather say, sate down by ery chance. 
Among these rugged hills ; where now he dwells. 
And wastes the sad remainder of his hours 
In self -indulging spleen, that doth not want 
Its own voluptuousness; — on this resolved. 
With this content, that he will live and die 
Forgotten, — at safe distance from a ' world 
Not moving to his mind.'" 

These serious words 
Closed the preparatory notices 
That served my Fellow-traveller to beguile 
The way, while we advanced up that wide Vale. 
Diverging now (as if his quest had been 
Some secret of the Mountains, Cavern, Fall 
Of water — or some boastful Eminence, 
Renowned for splendid prospect far and wide) 
We scaled, without a track to ease our steps, 
A steep ascent ; and reached a dreary plain, 
With a tumultous waste of huge hill tops 
Before us ; savage region ! which I paced 
Dispirited : when, all at once, behold ! 
Beneath our feet, a little lowly Vale, 
A lowly Vale, and yet uplifted high 
Among the mountains ; even as if the spot 
Had been, from eldest time by wish of theirs. 
So placed, to be shut out from all the world! 
Urn-like it was in shape, deep as an Urn ; 
With rocks encompassed, save that to the South 
Was one small opening, where a heath-clad ridge 
Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close ; 
A quiet treeless nook with two green fields, 
A liquid pool that glittered in the sun. 



58 Wordsworth's poems. 

And one bare Dwelling ; one Abode, no more ! 

It seemed the home of poverty and toil, 

Though not of want: the little fields made green 

By husbandry of many thrifty years. 

Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland House. 

— There crows the Cock, single in his domain • 
The small birds find in spring no thicket there 

To shroud them ; only from the neighboring Vales 
The Cuckoo, straggling up to the hill tops, 
Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder place 

Ah ! what a sweet Recess, thought I, is here ! 
Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease 
Upon a bed of heath ; — full many a spot 
Of hidden beauty have I chanced to espy 
Among the mountains ; never one like this ; 
So lonesome, and so perfectly secure ; 
Not melancholy — no, for it is green. 
And bright, and fertile, furnished in itself 
With the few needful things that life requires. 

— In rugged arms how soft it seems to lie, 
How tenderly protected ! Far and near 
We have an image of the pristine earth, 
The planet in its nakedness ; were this 
Man's only dwelling, sole appointed seat. 
First, last, and single in the breathing world. 
It could not be more quiet : peace is here 
Or nowhere ; days unruffled by the gale 

Oi* public news or private ; years that pass 
Forgetfully ; uncalled upon to pay 
The common penalties of mortal life, 
Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain. 

On these and kindred thoughts intent I lay 
In silence musing by my Comrade's side, 



Wordsworth's pokms. 51) 

He also silent : when, from out the heart 

Of that profound Abyss a solemn Voice, 

Or several voices in one solemn sound, 

Was heard — ascending : mournful, deep, and slow 

The Cadence, as of Psalms — a funeral dirge ! 

We listened, looking down upon the Hut, 

But seeing no one : meanwhile from below 

The strain continued, spiritual as before ; 

And now distinctly could I recognise 

These words : — " Shall in the Grave thy love be knoivii, 

In Death thy faithfulness ? " — " God rest his soul ! " 

The Wanderer cried, abruptly breaking silence, — 

" He is departed, and finds peace at last ! " 

This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains 

Not ceasing, forth appeared in view a band 

Of rustic Persons, from behind the hut 

Bearing a Coffin in the midst, with which 

They shaped their course along the sloping side 

Of that small Valley ; singing as they moved ; 

A sober company and few, the Men 

Bare-headed, and all decently attired ! 

Some steps when they had thus advanced, the dirge 

Ended ; and, from the stillness that ensued 

Recovering, to my Friend I said, " You spake, 

Methought, with apprehension that these rites 

Are paid to Him upon whose sly retreat 

This day we purposed to intrude." "I did so, 

But let us hence, that we may learn the truth : 

Perhaps it is not he, but some One else, 

For whom this pious service is performed ; 

Some other Tenant cf the Solitude." 

So, to a steep and difficult descent 

Trusting ourselves, we wound frnsn crag to crag^, 



60 Wordsworth's poems. 

Where passage could be won ; and, as the last 

Of the mute train, upon the heathy top 

Of that off-sloping Outlet, disappeared, 

I, more impatient in my downward course, 

Had landed upon easy ground : and there 

Stood waiting for my comrade. When behold 

An object that enticed my steps aside ! 

A narrow, winding Entry opened out 

Into a platform — that lay, sheep-foldwise, 

"Enclosed between an upright mass of rock 

And one old moss-grown wall ; — a cool Recess, 

And fanciful ! For, where the rock and wall 

Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed 

By thrusting two rude staves into the wall, 

And overlaying them with mountain sods ; 

To weather-fend a little turf-built seat 

Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread 

The burning sunshine, or a transient shower; 

But the whole plainly wrought by Children's hands ! 

Whose skill had thronged the floor with a proud sho\< 

Of baby-houses, curiously arranged ; 

Nor wanting ornaments of walks between. 

With mimic trees inserted in the turf. 

And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight, 

I could not choose but beckon to my Guide, 

Who, entering, round him threw a careless glance, 

Impatient to pass on, v/hen I exclaimed, 

"Lo! what is here?" and, stooping down, drew foitit 

A Book, that, in the midst of stones and moss. 

And wreck of parti-colon-d earthen ware 

Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise 

One of those petty structures. " Gracious Heaven . " 

The Wanderer cried, " it cannot but be his, 

And he is gone ! " The Book, which in my hand 

Had opened of itself, [for it was swoln 



Wordsworth's poems. 61 

With searching' damp, and seemingly had lain 

To the injurious elements exposed 

From week to week,) I found to be a work 

In the French Tongue, a Novel of Voltaire, 

His famous Optimist. " Unhappy Man ! " • 

Exclaimed my Friend : " here, then, has been to hin^ 

Retreat n'ithin retreat, a sheltering place 

Within how deep a shelter! He had fits. 

Even to the last, of g3nuine tenderness. 

And loved the haunts of children : here, no doubt, 

Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple sports, 

Or sate companionless ; and here the Book, 

Left and forgotten in his careless way, 

Must by the Cottage Children have been found : 

Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work ! 

To what odd purpose have the Darlings turned 

This sad Memorial of their hapless Friend ! " 

" Me," said I, " most doth it surprise, to find 

Such Book in such a place ! " "A Book it is," 

He answered, "to the Person suited well, 

Though little suited to surrounding things ; 

'Tis strange, I grant; and stranger still had been 

To see the Man who owned it, dwelling here. 

With one poor Shepherd, far from all the world ! 

Now, if our errand hath been thrown away, 

As from these intimations I forebode, 

Grieved shah 1 be — less for my sake than yours, 

And least of all for Him Avho is no more." 

By this, the Book was in the Old Man's hand ; 
And he continued, glancing on the leaves 
An eye of scorn ; " The Lover," said he, " doomed 
To love when hope hath failed hira — whom no depth 
Of privacy is deep enough to hide, 

r> 



62 Wordsworth's poems. 

Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair, 

And that is joy to him. When change of times 

Hath summoned Kings to scaffolds, do but give 

The faithful Servant, who must hide his head 

Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may, 

A kerchief sprinkled with his Master's blood, 

And he too hath his comforter. How poor. 

Beyond all poverty how destitute. 

Must that Man have been left, who, hither driven, 

Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him 

No dearer relic, and no better stay, 

Than this dull product of a Scoffer's pen. 

Impure conceits discharging from a heart 

Hardened by impious pride ! I did not fear 

To tax you with this journey;" mildly said 

My venerable Friend, as forth we stepped 

[nto the presence of the cheerful light — 

" For I have knowledge that you do not shrink 

From moving spectacles; — but let us on." 

So speaking, on he went, and at the word 
I followed, till he made a sudden stand : 
For full in view, approaching through a gate 
That opened from the enclosure of green fields 
Into the rough, uncultivated ground. 
Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead ! 
I knew, from his deportment, mien, and dress, 
That it could be no other; a pale face, 
A tall and meagre person, in a garb 
Not rustic, dull, and faded, like himself! 
He saw us not, though distant but few steps; 
For he was busy dealing, from a store 
Upon a broad leai carried, choisest strings 
Of red ripe currants ; gift by which he strove, 
With intermixture of endearing words, 



Wordsworth's poems. 63 

To soothe a Child who walked beside !iim, weeping 
As if disconsolate. " They to the Grave 
Are bearing him, my little One," he said, 
" To the dark pit ; but he will feel no pain ; 
His body is at rest, his soul in Heaven." 

More might have follov/ed — but my honored Friend 

Broke in upon the Speaker with a frank 

And cordial greeting. Vivid Avas the light 

That flashed and sparkled from the Other's eyes ; 

He was all fire : the sickness from his face 

Passed like a fancy that is swept away ; 

Hands joined he with his Visitant — a grasp,- 

An eager grasp ; and many moments' space, 

When the first glow of pleasure was no more, 

And much of what had vanished was returned, 

An amicable smile retained the life 

Which it had unexpectedly received. 

Upon his hollow cheek. " How kind." he said, 

" Nor could your coming have been better timed ; 

For this, you see, is in our narrow world 

A day of sorrow. I have here a Charge," 

And speaking thus, he patted tenderly 

The sun-burnt forehead of the weeping Child — 

" A little Mourner, whom it is my task 

To comfort. But how came Ye 1 — if yon track 

(Which doth at once befriend us and betray) 

Conducted hither your most welcome feet, 

Ye could not miss the Funeral Train ; they yet 

Have scarcely disappeared." " This blooming Child,' 

Said the Old Man, "is of an age to weep 

At any grave or solemn spectacle. 

Inly distressed or overpowered with awe, 

He knows not why ; — but he, perchance, this day 

Is shedding Orphan's tears ; and you yourself 



64 Wordsworth's poems. 

Must have sustained a loss." " The hand of Death,* 
He answered, "has been here; but could not well 
Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen 
Upon myself." The Other left these words 



" From yon Crag, 
Down whose steep sides we dropped into the vale, 
We heard the hymn they sang — a solemn sound 
Heard any where, but in a place like this 
'Tis more than human ! Many precious rites 
And customs of our rural ancestry 
Are gone, or stealing from us ; this, I hope. 
Will last for ever. Often have 1 stopped 
When on my way, I could not choose but stop. 
So much I felt the awfulness of Life, 
In that one moment when the Corse is lifted 
In silence, with a hush of decency, 
Then from the threshold moves with song of peace, 
And confidential yearnings, to its home, 
Its final home in earth. What traveller — who — 
(How far soe'er a Stranger) does not own 
The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them go, 
A mute Procession on the houseless road ; 
Or passing by some single tenement 
Or clustered dwellings, where again they raise 
The monitory voice ? But most of all 
It touches, it confirms, and elevates, 
Then, when the Body, soon to be consigned 
Ashes to ashes, dust bequeathed to dust, 
Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward borne 
Upon the shoulders of the next in love, 
The nearest in affection or in blood ; 
Yea, by the very Mourners who had knelt 
Beside the Coffin, resting on its lid 



Wordsworth's poems. 65 

In silent grief their uimplifted lieads, 
And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's mournful plaint, 
And that most awful scripture which declares 
We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed! 
— Have I not seen? — Ye likewise may have seen — 
Son, Husband, Brothers — Brothers side by side, 
And Son and Father also side by side — 
Rise from that posture ; and in concert move, 
On the green turf following the vested Priest, 
Four dear Supporters of one senseless Weight, 
From which they do not shrink, and under which 
They faint not, but advance towards the grave 
Step after step — together, with their firm 
Unhidden faces ; he that suffers most, 
He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps, 
The most serene, with most undaunted eye! 
/Oh! blest are they who live and die like these, 
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourned ! '' 

*'That poor Man taken hence to-day," replied 
The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile 
Which did not please me, "must be deemed, I fear 
Of the unblest ; for he will surely sink 
Into his mother earth without such pomp 
Of grief, depart without occasion given 
By him for such array of fortitude. 
Full seventy winters hath he lived, and mark ! 
This simple Child will mourn his one short hour 
And I shall miss him ; scanty tribute ! yet, 
This wanting, he would leave the sight of men, 
If love were his sole claim upon their care. 
Like a ripe date which in the desert falls 
Witiiout a hand to gather it." At this 
[ interposed, though loth to speak, and said. 
** Can it be thus, among so small a land 
6* 



36 Wordsworth's poems. 

As ye must needs be here ? In such a place 
[ would not willingly, methinks, lose sight 
Of a departing cloud!" "^Twas not for love,' 
Answered the sick nnm with a careless voice, 
*•' That I came hither ; neither have I found 
Among Associates who have power of speech, 
Nor in such other converse as is here, 
Temptation so prevailing as to change 
That mood, or undermine my first resolve." 
Then, speaking in like careless sort, he said 
To my benign Companion, — " Pity 'tis 
That fortune did not guide you to this house 
A few days earlier ; then would you have seen 
What stuff the Dwellers in a Solitude, 
That seems by Nature hollowed out to be 
The seat and bosom of pure innocence, 
Are made of; — an ungracious matter this! 
Which, for truth's sake, yet in remembrance too 
Of past discussions with this zealous Friend 
And Advocate of humble life, I now 
Will force upon his notice ; undeterred 
By the example of his own pure course, 
And that respect and deference which a Soul 
May fairly claim, by niggard age enriched 
In what she values most — the love of God 
And his frail creature man; — but ye shall hear' 
I talk, and ye are standing in the sun, 
Without refreshment ! " 

Saying this, he led 
Towards the Cottage ; — homely was the spot ; 
And, to my feeling, ere we reached the door, 
tiad almost a forbidding nakedness ; 
Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair 
Than it appeared when from the beetling rock 



Wordsworth's pokms. fi7 

W"e had looked down upon it. All within, 

As left by the departed company, 

Was silent ; and the solitary clock 

Ticked, as I thought, with melancholy sound. 

Following our Guide, we clomb the cottage stairsi, 

And reached a small apartment dark and low. 

Which was no sooner entered than our Host 

Said gaily, " This is my domain, my cell. 

My hermitage, my cabin, — what you will — 

I love it better than a snail his house. 

But now Ye shall be feasted with our best." 

So, with more ardor than an unripe girl 

Left one day mistress of her mother's stores, 

He went about his hospitable task. 

My eyes were busy, and my thoughts no less, 

And pleased I looked upon my gray-haired Friend 

As if to thank him ; he returned that look, 

Cheered, plainly, and yet serious. What a wreck 

Had we around us ! scattered was the floor, 

And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and shelf, 

With books, maps, fossils, withered plants and flowers, 

And tufts of mountain moss : mechanic tools 

Lay intermixed with scraps of paper — some 

Scribbled with verse : a broken angling-rod 

And shattered telescope, together linked 

By cobwebs, stood within a dusty nook ; 

And instruments of music, some half-made, 

Some in disgrace, hung dangling from the walls 

— But speedily the promise was fulfilled; 

A feast before us, and a courteous Host 

Inviting us in glee to sit and eat. 

A napkin, white as foam of that rough brook 

By which it had been bleached, o'erspread the board, 

And was itself half covered with a load 

Of dainties — oaten breid, curd, cheese, and cream 



68 Wordsworth's poems. 

And cakes of butter curiously embossed — 

Butter that had imbibed from meadow flowers 

A crolden hue, delicate as their own, 

Faintly reflected in a lingering stream ; 

Nor lacked, for more delight on that warn^. day, 

Our Table, small porade of garden fruits, 

And whortle-berries from the mountain-side. 

The Child, who long ere this had stilled his sobs, 

Was now a help to his late Comforter, 

\nd moved, a willing Page, as he was bid, 

Vlinistering to our need. 

In genial mood, 
^Vhile at our pastoral banquet thus we sate 
1 'renting the window of that little Cell, 
I could not, ever and anon, forbear 
I'o glance an upward look on two huge Peaks, 
That from some other vale jieered into this. 
" Those lusty Twins," exclaimed our host, " if here 
It Avere your lot to dwell, would soon becoine 
Your prized Companions. Many are the notes 
Wnich, in his tuneful course, the wind draws forth 
From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and dashing shores 
And well those lofty Brethren bear their part 
In the wild concert — chiefly when the storm 
Rides high ; then all the upper air they fill 
With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow. 
Like smoke, along the level of the blast. 
In mighty current; theirs too is the song 
Of stream and headlong flood that seldom fails ; 
And, in the grim and breathless houi of noon, 
Methinks that I have heard them echo back 
The thunder's greeting: — nor have Nature's laws 
Left them ungifted with a power to yield 
Mns'c of finer tone ; a harmony, 



Wordsworth's poems. (?J 

So do I c?n it, though it be the hand 

Of silence, though there be no voice ; — the clouds, 

The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns, 

Motions of moonlight, all come thither — touch, 

And have an answer — thither come, and sliape 

A language not unwelcome to sick hearts 

A.^d iA\e spirits: — there the sun himself, 

At the calm close of summer's longest day, 

Rests his substantial Orb; — between those heights 

And on the top of either pinnacle, 

More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault 

Sparkle the Stars, as of their station proud. 

Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man 

Than the mute Agents stirring there : — alone 

Here do I sit and w^atch." 

A fall of voice, 
Regretted like the Nightingale's last note, 
Had scarcely closed this high-wrought Rhapsody, 
Ere with inviting smile the Wanderer said, 
"Now for the Tale with which you threatened us!' 
" In truth, the threat escaped me unawares : 
Should the tale tire you, let this challenge stand 
For my excuse. Dissevered from mankind. 
As to your eyes and thoughts we must have seemed, 
When ye looked doAvn upon us from the crag; 
Islanders of a stormy mountain sea — 
We are not so; — perpetually we touch 
Upon the vulgar ordinance of the world, 
And he, whom this our Cottage hath to-day 
Relinquished, lived dependent for his bread 
Upon the laws of public charity. 
The Housewife, tempted by such slender gains 
\s might from that occasion be distilled 
Opened, as she before had done for me. 



;o 



WORDSWORTH S POEMS. 



Hei doors to admit this homeless Pensioner; 

The portion gave of coarse but wholesome fare 

Which appetite required — a blind dull nook 

Such as she had — the kennel of his rest ! 

This, in itself not ill, would yet have been 

111 borne in earlier life ; but his was now 

Ti.o still contentedness of se/enty years. 

Calm did he sit beneath the wide-spread tree 

Of his old age ; and yet less calm and meek, 

Willingly meek or venerably calm, 

Than slow and torpid ; paying in this wise 

A penalty, if penalty it were. 

For spendthrift feats, excesses of his prime. 

I loved the Old Man, for I pitied him! 

A task it was, I own, to hold discourse 

With one so slow in gathering up his thoughts 

But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes ; 

Mild, inoffensive, ready in Ms way, 

And helpful to his utmost power: and there 

Our Housewife knew full well what she possessed 

He was her Vassal of all labor, tilled 

Her garden, from the pasture fetched her Kine; 

And, one among the orderly array 

Of Haymakers, beneath the burning sun 

Maintained his place ; or heedfully pursued 

His course, on errands bound, to other vales, 

Leading sometimes an inexperienced Child, 

Too young for any profitable task. 

So moved he like a Shadow that performed 

Substantial service. Mark me now, and learn 

For vv liat reward ! The Moon her monthly round 

Hath not coinpletod since our Dame, the Queen 

Of this one cottage and this lonely dal3. 

Into my little sanctuary rushed — 

Voice to a rueful treble humanized. 



Wordsworth's poems. 71 

And features in deplorable dismay. — 

I treat the matter lightly, but, alas ! 

It is most serious. — Persevering rain 

Had fallen in torrents ; all the mountain tops 

Were hidden, and black vapors coursfd their sides: 

This had I seen, and saw ; but, till she spake, 

Was wholly ignorant that my ancient Friend, 

Who, at her bidding, early and alone, 

Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland tuif 

For winter fuel, to his noontide meal 

Returned not, and now haply on the Heights 

Lay at the mercy of this raging storm. 

* Inhuman ! ' said I ; ' was an Old Man's life 

Not worth the trouble of a thought? — alas! 

This notice comes too late.' With joy I saw 

Her Husband enter — from a distant Vale 

We sallied forth together; found the tools 

Which the neglected Veteran had dropped, 

But through all quarters looked for him in vam. 

We shouted — but no answer! Darkness fell 

Without remission of the blast or shower, 

And fears for our own safety drove us home. 

I, who weep little, did, I will confess, 

The moment I was seated here alone. 

Honor my little Cell with some few tears 

Which anger and resentment ^ould mjt dry. 

All night the storm endured ; and, soon as help 

Had been collected from the neighboring Vale, 

With morning we renewed our quest : the wind 

Was fallen, the rain abated, but the hills 

Lay shrouded in impenetrable mist ; 

And long and hopelessly we sought in vain, 

Till, chancing on that lofty ridge to pass 

A heap of ruin, alm.ost without walls. 

And wholly without roof, (the bleached renmina 



72 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 



Of a small Chapel where, in ancient time, 

The Peasants of these lonely valleys used 

To meet for worship on that central height,) — 

We there espied the Object of our search, 

Lying, full three parts buried among tufts 

Of heath-plant, under and above him strewn, 

To baffle, as be might, the watery storm: 

And there we found him breathing peaceably* 

Snug as a child that hides itself in sport 

'Mid a green hay-cock in a sunny field. 

We spake — he made reply, but would not stir 

At our entreaty ; less from want of power 

Than apprehension and bewildering thoughts. 

So was he lifted gently from the ground, 

And with their freight the Shepherds homeward moved 

Through the dull mist, I following — when a step, 

A single step, that freed me from the skirts 

Of the blind vapor, opened to my view 

Glory beyond all glory ever seen 

By waking sense, or by the dreaming soul ! 

The appearance, instantaneously disclosed, 

Was of a mighty^City — boldly say 

A wilderness of building, sinking far 

And self-withdrawn into a wondrous depth, 

Far sinking into splendor — without end ! 

Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold, 

With alabaster domes, and silver spires, 

And blazing terrace upon terrace, high 

Uplifted; here, serene pavilions bright, 

In avenues disposed ; there, towers Hegirt 

With battlements that on their restless fronts 

Bore stars — illumination of all gems ! 

By earthly nature had the eifect been wrought 

Upon the dark materials of the storm 

Now pacified ; on them, and on the coves 



Wordsworth's foems. 73 

And mountain-steeps and sninniits, whereunto 
The vapors had receded, taking there 
Their station under a cerulean sky. 
Oh, 'twas an unimaginable sight I 
Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald turf. 
Clouds of all tincture, rocks, and sapphire sky, 
Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed. 
Molten together, and composing tTius, 
Each lost in each, that marvellous array 
Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge 
Fantastic pomp of structure without name, 
[n fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped. 
Right in the midst, where interspace appeared 
Of open court, an object like a throne 
Beneath a shining canopy of state 
Stood fixed ; and fixed resemblances were seen 
To implements of ordinary use. 
But vast in size, in substance glorified; 
Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld 
In vision — forms uncouth of mightiest power 
For admiration and mysterious awe. 
Below me was the earth ; this little Vale 
Lay low beneath my feet ; 'twas visible — 
I saw not, but I felt that it was there. 
That which I saw was the revealed abode 
Of spirits in beatitude : my heart 
Swelled in my breast. 'I have been dead,' I cried 
' And noAv I live ! Oh ! wherefore do I live ? ' 
And with that pang I prayed to be no more ! 
— But I forget our Charge, as utterly 
I then forgot him : — there I stood and gazed ; 
The apparition faded not away. 
And I descended. Having reached the House, 
I found its rescued Inmate safely lodged, 
And in serene possession of himself, 
7 



74 Wordsworth's poems. 

Beside a genial fire, that seemed to spread 

A gleam of comfort o'er his pallid face. 

Great show of joy the Housewife made, and truly 

Was glad to find her conscience set at ease ; 

And not less glad, for sake of her good name, 

That the poor Sufterer had escaped with life. 

But, though he seemed at first to have received 

No harm, and uncomplaining as before 

Went through his usual tasks, a silent change 

Soon showed itself; he lingered three short weeks; 

And from the Cottage hath been borne to-day. 

" So ends my dolorous Tale, and glad I am 

That it is ended." At these words he turned, 

And, with blithe air of open fellowship, 

Brought from the Cupboard wine and stouter cheer, 

Like one who would be merry. Seeing this. 

My gray-haired Friend said courteously — " Nay, nay 

You have regaled us as a Hermit ought ; 

Now let us forth mt.o the sun 1 '"' Our Host 

Rose, thougn reluctantly, and forth we went 



THE EXCURSION. 



BOOK THE THIRD 

DESPONDENCY. 

ARGUMENT. 

mug es in 1 he Valley — Another Recess m it entered and described - 
Wanderer's sensations — Solitary's, excited by the same objects — 
Contrast between these — Despondency of the Solitary frently re- 
[■-roved — Conversation exhibiting: the Solitary's past and present 
opinions and feelings, till he enters upon his own History at length — 
Mis domestic felicity — afflictions — dejection — Roused by the French 
Revolution — Disappointment and disgust — Voyage to Amorica — 
Disappoint ment and disgust pursue him — His return — llis languor 
and depression of mind, from waul of faith iti the great truths o( 
Religion, and want of confidence in the virtue of Manldnd. 

A HUMMING Bee — a little tinkling Rill — 

A pair of Falcons, wheeling on the wing, 

In clamorous agitation, round the crest 

Of a tall rock, their airy Citadel — 

By each and all of these the pensive ear 

Was greeted, in the silence that ensued, 

When through the Cottage threshold we had passed, 

And, deep within that lonesome Valley, stood 

Once more, beneath the concave of a blue 

And cloudless sky. Anon, exclaimed our Host, 



6 Wordsworth's poems. 

Triumphantl}' dispersing with the taunt 

The shade of discontent which on his brow 

Bad gathered, — " Ye have left my cell — but see 

How Nature hems you in with friendly arms ! 

And by her help ye are my Prisoners still. 

But which way shall I lead you ? — how contrive, 

In Spot so parsimoniously endov/ed, 

That the brief hours, which yet remain, may reap 

Some recompense of knowledge or delight ? " 

So saying, round he looked, as if perplexed ; 

And, to remove those doubts, my gray-haired Friend 

Said — "Shall we take this pathway for our guide? — 

Upward it winds, as if, in summer heats. 

Its line had first been fashioned by the flock, 

A place of refuge seeking at the root 

Of yon black Yew-tree ; whose protruded boughs 

Darken the silver bosom of the crag. 

From which she draws her meagre sustenance. 

There in commodious shelter may we rest. 

Or let us trace this Streamlet to his source ; 

Feebly it tinkles with an earthly sound. 

And a few steps may bring us to the spot 

Where, haply, crowned with flowerets and green herbs 

The mountain Infant to the sun comes forth. 

Like human life from darkness," A quick turn 

Through a strait passage of encumbered ground. 

Proved that such hope was vain — for now we stood 

Shut out from prospect of the open Vale, 

And saw he water that composed this Rill 

Descending disembodied, and diffused 

O'er the smooth surface of an ample Crag, 

Lofty, and steep, and naked as a Tower. 

All further progress here was barred; — and who. 

Thought I, if master of a vacant hour. 

Here would not linger, willingly detained ? 



wordswoiith's poems. 77 

Whether to such wild objects lie were led 
When copious rains have maornified the stream 
Into a loud and whit3-robed Waterfall, 
Or introduced at this more quiet time. 

Upon a semicirque of turf-clad ground, 

The hidden nook discovered to our view 

A mass of rock, resembling-, as it lay 

Right at the foot of that moist precipice, 

A stranded Ship, with keel upturned, — that rests 

Fearless of winds and waves. Three several Stones 

Stood near, of smaller size, and not unlike 

To monumental pillars : and from these 

Some little space disjoined, a pair were seen, 

That with united shoulders bore aloft 

A Fragment, like an Altar, flat and smooth: 

Barren the tablet, yet thereon appeared 

A tall and shining Holly, that had found, 

A hospitable chink, and stood upright, 

As if inserted by souie human hand 

In mockery, to wither in the sun, 

Or lay its beauty flat before a breeze, 

The first that entered. But no breeze did now 

Find entrance ; — high or low appeared no trace 

Of motion, save the Water that descended, 

Diffused adown that Barrier of steep rock. 

And softly creeping, like a breath of air. 

Such as is sometimes seen, and hardly seen. 

To brush the still breast of a crystal lake. 

''Behold a Cabinet for Sages built. 

Which Kings might envy ! " Praise to this effect 

Broke from the happy Old Man's reverend lip- 

Who to the Solitary turned, and said, 

^ In sootli, with love's familiar privilege, 



78 Wordsworth's poems. 

Vou have decried the wealth which is your own, 
Among these Rocks and Stones, methinks, 1 see 
More than the heedless impress that belongs 
To lonely Nature's casual work ; they bear 
A semblance strange of power intelligent, 
And of design not wholly worn away. 
Boldest of plants that ever faced the wind, 
How gracefully that slender Shrub looks forth 
From its fantastic birth-place ! And I own, 
Some shadowy intimations haunt me here, 
That in these shows a chronicle survives 
Of purposes akin to those of Man, 
But wrought with mightier arm than now prevails 

— Voiceless the Stream descends into the gulf 
With timid lapse; — and lo ! while in this Strait 
I stand — the chasm of sky above my head 

Is heaven's profoundest azure; no domain 

For fickle, short-lived clouds to occupy, 

Or to pass through, but rather an Abyss 

In which the everlasting Stars abide ; 

And whose soft gloom and boundless depth might tempt 

The curious eye to look for them by day. 

— Hail Contemplation! from the stately towers, 
Reared by the industrious hand of human art 
To lift tliee high above the misty air 

And turbulence of murmuring cities vast ; 

From academic groves, that have for thee 

Been planted, hither come and find a Lodge 

To which thou mayest resort for holier peace, -- 

From wh3se calm centre. Thou, througli height or depth, 

Mayest penetrate, wherever Truth shall lead ; 

Measuring through ali degrees, until the scale 

Of Time and conscious Nature disnppeai 

Lost in unsearchable Eternity ! " 



WORDSV/ORTH S F'OF.MS. 



79 



\ pause ensued ; aurl with niiimter c:tre 
We scanned the various features of the scene : 
And soon the Tenant of that lonely Vale 
With courteous Voice trins spake — 

"I should have grieved 
Hereafter, not escaping self-reproach, 
If from my poor Retirement ye had gone 
Leaving this Nook unvisited ; but, in sooth, 
Your unexpected presence had so roused 
My spirits, that they were bei.t on enterprise; 
And, like an ardent Hunter, I forgot, 
Or, shall I say? — disdained, the game that lurks 
At my own door. The sliapes before our eyes 
And their arrangement, doubtless must be deemed 
The sport of Nature, aided by blind Chance 
Rudely to mock the works of toiling Man, 
And hence, this upright Shaft of unhewn stone, 
From Fancy, willing to set off her stores 
By sounding Titles, hath acquired the name 
Of Pompey's Pillar ; that I gravely style 
My Theban Obelisk ; and there, behold 
A Druid Cromlech ! — thus I entertain 
The antiquarian humor, and am pleased 
To skim along the surfaces of things, 
Beguiling harmlessly, the listless hours. 
But if the spirit be oppressed by sense 
Of instability, revolt, decay. 

And change, and emptiness, these freaks of Natui* 
And her blind helper Chance, do then suffice 
To quicken, and to aggravate — to feed 
Pity and scorn, and melancholy pride. 
Not less than that huge Pile (from some abyss 
Of mortal power unquestionably sprung) 
Whose hoary Diadem of pendent rocks 



80 %vordsworth's poems. 

Confines the shrill-voiced whirlwind, round and rouua 

Eddying within its vast circ jmference, 

On Sarum's naked plain; — than pyramid 

Of Egypt, unsubverted, undissolved ; 

Or Syria's marble Ruins towering high 

Above the sandy Desert, in the light 

Of sun or moon. Forgive me, if I say 

That an appearance which hath raised your minds 

To an exalted pitch, (the self-same cause 

Different effect producing,) is for me 

Fraught rather with depression than delight, 

Though shame it were, could I not look around, 

By the reflection of your pleasure, pleased. 

Yet happier in my judgment, ever! than you. 

With your bright transports, fairly may be deemed, 

The wandering Herbalist, — who, clear alike 

From vain, and, that worse evil, vexing thoughts. 

Casts, if he ever chance to enter here. 

Upon these uncouth Forms a slight regard 

Of transitory interest, and peeps round 

For some rare Floweret of the hills, or Plant 

Of craggy fountain; what he hopes for wins, 

Or learns, at least, that 'tis not to be won: 

Then, keen and eager as a fine-nosed Hound 

By soul-engrossing instinct driven along 

Through wood or open field, the harmless Man 

Departs, intent upon his onward quest ! 

Nor is that Fellow-wanderer, so deem I, 

Less to be envied, (you may trace him oft 

By scars which his activity has left 

Beside our roads and pathways, though, thank Heaven 

This covert nook reports not of his hand,) 

He who with pocket hammer smites the edge 

Of luckless rock or prominent stone disguised. 

In weather-stains or crusted o'er by Nature 



Wordsworth's poems. 81 

With her first growths — detaching by the stroke 

A chip or splinter — to resolve his doubts; 

And, with that ready answer satisfied, 

The substance classes by some barbarous name. 

And hurries on ; or fr'^m the fragments picks 

His specimen, if haply interveined 

With sparkling minera , or should crystal cube 

Lurk in its cells — and thinks himself enriched, 

Wealthier, and doubtless wiser, than before I 

Intrusted safely each to his pursuit, 

Earnest alike, let both from hill to hiii 

Range ; if it please them, speed from clime to cli i» 

The mind is full — no pain is in their sport," 

" Then," said I, interposing, " One is near. 
Who cannot but possess in your esteem 
Place worthier still of envy. May I name. 
Without off'ence, that fair-faced Cottage-boy? 
Dame Nature's Pupil of the lowest Form, 
Youngest Apprentice in the School of Art 
Him, as we entered from the open Glen, 
You might have noticed, busily engaged, 
Heart, soul, and hands, — in mending the defects 
Left in the fabric of a leaky dam, 
Raised for enabling this penurious stream 
To turn a slender mill (that new-made plaything) 
For his delight — the happiest he of all ! " 

* Far happiest," answered the desponding Man, 

"If, such as now he is, he might remain i 

Ah ! what avails Imagination high. 

Or Question deep? — What profits all that Eartii 

Or Heaven's blue Vault, is suffered to put forth 

Of impulse or allurement, for the Suul 

To quit th(; beaten track of life, and so-vr 



82 Wordsworth's poems. 

Far as she finds a yielding element 

In past or future ; far as she can go 

Tlirough time or space ; if neither in the one, 

Nor in the other region, nor in aught 

That Fancy, dreaming o'er the map of things, 

Hath placed beyond these penetrable bounds, 

Words of assurance can be heard ; if nowhere 

A habitation, for consummate good 

Nor for progressive virtue, by the i^earch 

Can be attained — a better sanctuary 

From doubt and sorrow, than the senseless grave ? " 

" Ts this," the gray-haired Wanderer mildly said, 
"The voice, which we so lately overheard, 
To that same Child addressing tenderly 
The Consolations of a hopeful mind ? 
' His body is at rest^ his soul in heaven.'' 
These were your words; and, verily, methinks 
Wisdom is oft-times nearer when we stoop 
Than when we soar ! " 

The Other, not displeased. 
Promptly replied — " My notion is the same. 
And I, without reluctance, could decline 
All act of Inquisition whence we rise, 
And what, when breath hath ceased, we may becoraa 
Here are we, in a bright and breathing World — 
Our Origin, what matters it ? In lack 
Of Avorthier explanation, say at once, 
With the American, (a thought which suits 
The place where now v/e stand,) that certain Men 
Leapt out together from a rocky Cave ; 
And these were the first Parents of Mankind! 
Or, if a different image be recalled 
By the vyanu sunshine, and the joci nd voice 



WORDSWORTH S FORMS. 



83 



Of insects, chirping out their careless lives 

On these soft beds of thyme-besprinkled turf, 

Choose, with the gay Athenian, a conceit 

As sound — blithe race! whose mantles were bedecked 

With golden Grasshoppers, in sign that they 

Had sprung, like those bright creatures, from the sail 

Whereon their endless generations dwelt. 

But stop ! — these theoretic fancies jar 

On serious minds; then, as the Hindoos draw 

Their holy Ganges from a skyey fount, 

Even so deduce the Stream of human Life 

From seats of power divine ; and hope, or trust. 

That our Existence winds her stately course 

Beneath the Sun, like Ganges, to make part 

Of a living Ocean : or, to sink engulfed, 

Like Niger, in impenetrable sands 

And utter darkness — thought which may be facedj 

Though comfortless! — Not of myself I speak; 

Such acquiescence neither doth imply. 

In me, a meekly-bending spirit — soothed 

By natural piety ; nor a lofty mind. 

By ' philosophic discipline prepared 

For calm subjection to acknowledged law; 

Pleased to have been, contented not to be. 

Such palms I boast not ; — no ! to me, Avho find, 

Reviewing my past way, much to condemn. 

Little to praise, and nothing to regret 

(Save some remembrances of dream-like joys. . 

That scarcely seem to have belonged to me) — 

If I must take my choice between the pair 

That rule alternately the weary hours — 

Night is than Day more acceptable; sleep 

Doth, in my estimate of good, appear 

A better state than waking ; death than sleep . 



64 wf.KDs worth's poems. 

Feelingly sweet is stillness after storm, 
Though under covert of the wormy ground! 

" Yet be it said, in justice to myself, 

That in more genial times, when I was free 

To explore the destiny of human kind, 

(Not as an intellectual game pursued 

With curious subtilty, from wish to cheat 

[rksome sensations ; but by love of truth 

Urged on, or haply by intense delight 

In feeding thought, wherever tliought could feed,) 

I did not rank with those (too dull or nice, 

For to my judgment such they then appeared, 

Or too aspiring, thankless at the best) 

Who, in this frame of hutnan life, perceive 

An object whereunto their souls are tied 

In discontented wedlock; nor did e'er, 

From me, those dark impervious shades, that liang 

Upon the region whither we are bound, 

Exclude a power to enjoy the vital beams 

Of present sunshine. Deities that float 

On wings ! angelic Spirits ! I could muse 

O'er what, from eldest time, we have been told 

Of your bright forms and glorious faculties, 

And with the imagination be content, 

Not wishing more; repining not to tread 

The little sinuous path of earthly care, 

By flowers embellished, and by springs refresned. 

— 'Blow, winds of Autumn! — let your chilling breatii 

Take the live herbage from the mead, and strip 

The shady forest of its green attire ; 

And let the bursting clouds to fury rouse 

The gentle Brooks! Your desolating sway,' 

Thus I exclaimed, ' no sadness sheds on me 

And no disorder in your rage I find. 



Wordsworth's potnrs. SA 

What iigi.ity, what beauty, in this ciianire 

From inild to angry, and from sad to gay, 

Alternate and revolving ! How benign, 

How rich in animation and delight, 

How bountiful these elements — compared 

With aught, as more desirable and fair, 

Devised by Fancy for the Golden Age; 

Or the perpetual warbling that prevails 

In Arcady, beneath unaltered skies, 

Through the long Year in constant quiet bound, 

Night hushed as night, and day serene as day!' 

— But why this tedious record? — Age, we know 

Is garrulous; and solitude is apt 

To anticipate the privilege of Age. 

From far ye come ; and surely with a hope 

Of better entertainment — let us hence ! " 

Loth to forsake the spot, and still more loth 

To be diverted from our present theme, 

I said, " My thoughts agreeing, Sir, with yours, 

Would push this censure farther; — for, if smiles 

Of scornful pity be the just reward 

Of Poesy, thus courteously employed 

In framing models to improve the scheme 

Of Man's existence, and recast the Avorld, 

Wi.y should not grave Philosophy be styled, 

Herself, a Dreamer of a kindred stock, 

A Dreamer yet more spiritless and dull ? 

Yes. shall the fine immunities she boasts 

Establish sounder titles of esteeu) 

For Her, who (all too timid and reserved 

For onset, for resistance too inert. 

Too weak for suffering, and for hope too -tame), 

Placed among flowery gardens, curtained round 

The world-excluding groves, the Brotherhood 



DO Wordsworth's poems. 

Of soft Epicureans, taught — if they 

Tlie ends of being would secure, and win 

The crown of wisdom — to yield up their souls 

To a voluptuous unconcern, preferring 

Tranquillity to all things. Or is She," 

I cried, " more worthy of regard, the Power, 

Who, for the sake of sterner quiet, closed 

The Stoic's heart against the vain approach 

Of admiration, and all sense of joy ? " 

His Countenance gave notice that my zeal 

Accorded little with his present mind ; 

I ceased, and he resumed: — "Ah! gentle Sir, 

Slight, if you will, the means ; but spare to sliglu 

The end of those, who did, by system, rank. 

As the prime object of a wise Man's aim, — 

Security from shock of accident. 

Release from fear ; and cherished peaceful days 

For their own sakes, as mortal life's chief good, 

And only reasonable felicity. 

What motive drew, what impulse, I would ask, 

Through a long course of later ages, drove 

The Hermit to his Cell in forest wide; 

Or what detained him, till his closing eyes 

Took their last farewell of the sun and stars, 

Fast anchored in the desert ? Not alone 

Dread of the persecuting sword — remorse, 

Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged 

And unavengeable, defeated pride, 

Prosperity subverted, maddening want, 

Friendship betrayed, affection unreturned, 

Love with despair, or grief in agony ; 

Not always from intolerable pangs 

He fled ; but, compassed round by pleasure, siglicd 

Por i'lfieppiKi^^^nt happiness ; craviiio- po:u:e. 



WORDSWORTH S POEMS. 3/ 

The central feeling of all happiness, 

Not as a refuge from distress or pain, 

A breathing-time, vacation, or a truce. 

But for its absolute self; a life of peace. 

Stability without regret or fear ; 

That hath been, is, and shall he evermore 

Such the reward he sought ; and wore out life 

There, where on few external things his heart 

Was set, and those his own ; or, if not his, 

Subsisting under Nature's steadfast law. 

" What other yearning was the master tie 

Of the monastic Brotherhood, upon Rock 

Aerial, or in green secluded Vcde, 

One atler one, collected from afar. 

An undissolving Fellowship? — What but this. 

The universal instinct of repose. 

The longing for coniirmed tranquillity. 

Inward and outward; humble, yet sublime. 

The life where hope and memory are as one , 

Earth quiet and unchanged ; the human Soul 

Consistent in self-rule ; and heaven revealed 

To meditation in that quietness ! 

Such was their scheme : — thrice happy he who gained 

The end proi>osed ! And, — though the same were 

missed 
By multitudes, perhaps obtained by none, — 
They, for the attempt, and for the pains employed, 
Do, in my present censure, stand redeemed 
From the unqualified disdain that once 
Would have been cast upon them, by my Voice 
Delivering her decisions from the seat 
Of forward Youth — that scruples not to solve 
Doubts, and determine questions, by the rules 
Of inexperienced judgment, ever prone 



00 WORDSWORTH S POE1VT9, 

To overweening faith; and is inflamed, 
By courage, to demand from real life 
The test of act and suffering — to provoke 
Hostility, how dreadful when it comes. 
Whether affliction be the foe, or guilt ! 

" A Child of eartii, I rested, in that stage 

Of my past course to which these thoughts advfcjiy 

Upon earth's native energies ; forgetting 

That mine was a condition which required 

Nor energy, nor fortitude — a calm 

Without vicissitude; which, if the like 

Had been presented to my view elsewhere, 

1 might have even been tempted to despise. 
But that which was serene was also bright: 
Enlivened Happiness with joy o'erflowing. 

With joy, and — oh ! that memory should survive 

To speak the word — with rapture ! Nature's boon, 

Life's genuine inspiration, happiness 

Above what rules can teach, or fancy feign ; 

Abused, as all possessions are abused 

That are' not prized according to their worth. 

And yet, what worth ? what good is given to Men 

More solid than the gilded clouds of heaven ? 

What joy more lasting than a vernal flower ? 

None ! 'tis the general plaint of human kind 

In solitude, and mutually addressed 

From each to all, for wisdom's sake — this truth 

The Priest announces from his holy seat ; 

And, crowned with garlands in the summer grove, 

The Poet fits it to his pensive lyre. 

Yet, ere that final resting place be gained, 

Sharp contradictions may arise by doom 

Of this same life, compelling us to grieve 

That the prosperities of love and joy 



Wordsworth's poems. 89 

Should be permitted oft-times, to endure 
So long-, and be at once cast down for ever. 
Oh ! tremble. Ye, to whom hath been assigned 
A course of days composing happy months. 
And they as happy years ; the present still 
So like the past, and both so firm a pledge 
Of a congenial future, that the wheels 
Of pleasure move without the aid of hope : 
For Mutability is Nature's bane ; 
And slighted Hope will be avenged ; and, when 
Ye need her favors, Ye shall find her not ; 
But in her stead — fear — doubt — and agony ! " 

This was the bitter language of the heart : 

But, while he spake, look, gesture, tone of voice, 

Though discomposed and vehement, were such 

As skill and graceful Nature might suggest 

To a Proficient of the tragic scene. 

Standing before the multitude, beset 

With dark events. Desirous to divert 

Oi stem the current of the Speaker's thoughts, 

We signified a wish to leave that Place 

()t stillness and close privacy, a nook 

That seemed for self-examination made, 

Or, for confession, in the sinner's need, 

Hidden from all Men's view. To our attempt 

He yielded not; but pointing to a slope 

Of mossy turf defended from the sun. 

And, on that couch inviting us to rest. 

Full on that tender-hearted Man he turned 

A sericus eye, and thus his speech renewed: — 

" You never saw, your eyes did never look 

On the bright Form of Her whom once I loved 

Her silver voice was heard upon the earth, 

8* 



90 Wordsworth's poems. 

A sound unknown to you; else, honored Friend! 

Your heart had borne a pitiable share 

Of what I suffered, when I wept that loss, — 

And suffer now, not seldom, from the thought 

That I remember, and can weep no more 

Stripped as I am of all the g-olden fruit 

Of self-esteem ; and by the cutting blasts 

Of self-reproach familiarly assailed ; 

I would not yet be of such wintry barrenness 

But that some leaf of your regard should hang 

Upon my naked brandies : — lively thoughts 

Give birth, full often, to unguarded words ; 

I grieve that, in your presence, from my tongue 

Too much of frailty hath already dropped ; 

But that too much demands still more. 

" You know, 
Revered Compatriot; — and to you, kind Sir, 
(Not to be deemed a Stranger, as you come 
Following the guidance of these weleome feet 
To our secluded Vale,) it may be told, 
That my demerits did not sue in vain 
To One on whose mild radiance many gazed 
With hope, and all with pleasure. This fair Bridt^ 
In the devotedness of youthful Love, 
Preferring me to Parents, and the choir 
Of gay companions, — to the natal roof. 
And all known places and familiar sights, 
(Resigned, with s:idness gently weighing dowj 
Her trembling expectations, but no more 
Than did to her due honor, and to me 
Yielded, that day, a confidence sublime 
In what I had to build upon) — this Bride 
Young, modest, meek, and beautiful, I led 
To a low Cottage in a sunny Bay, 
Where the salt sea innocuously bre.-iks, 



Wordsworth's poems. 91 

Ana the sea breeze as innocently breathes 
On Devon's leafy shores — a sheltered Hold, 
In a soft clime encouraging the soil 
To a luxuriant bounty ! As our steps 
Approach the embowered Abode — our chosen Seat - 
See, rooted in the earth, her kindly bed. 
The unendangered Myrtle, decked with flowers, 
Before the threshold stands to welcome us ! 
While, in the flowering Myrtle's neighborhood, 
Not overlooked but courting no regard. 
Those native plants, the Holly and the Yew, 
Gave modest intimation to the mind 
How willingly their aid they would unite 
With the green Myrtle, to endear the hours 
Of winter, and protect that pleasant place. 
— Wild were the Walks upon those lonely Downs, 
Track leading into Track, how marked, how worn 
Into bright verdure, between fern and gorse 
Winding away its never-ending line 
On their smooth surface, evidence was none : 
But, there, lay open to our daily haunt, 
A range of unappropriated earth, 
Where youth's ambitious feet might move at large ; 
Whence, unmolested Wanderer's, we beheld 
The shining Giver of the Day difiuse 
His brightness o'er a tract of sea and land 
Gay as our spirits, free as our desires, 
As our enjoyments, boundless. From those Heights 
We dropped, at pleasure, into sylvan Combs ; 
Where arbors of impenetrable shade. 
And mossy seats, detained us side by side. 
With hearts at ease, and knowledge in our hearts 
That all the grove and all the day was ours.' 

"Bit NatuK- called my Partner to resign 



92 Wordsworth's poems. 

Her share m the pure freedom of that life, 

Enjoyed by us in common. To my hope, 

To my heart'? wish, my tender Mate became 

The thankful captive of maternal bonds ; 

And those wild paths were left to me alone. 

There could I meditate on follies past; 

And, like a weary Voyager escaped 

From risk and hardship, inwardly retrace 

A course of vain delights and thoughtless guilt 

And self-indulgence — without shame pursued. 

There, undisturbed, could think of, and could thank 

Her — whose submissive spirit was to me 

Rule and restraint — my Guardian — shall I say 

That earthly Providence, whose guiding love 

Within a port of rest had lodged me safe ; 

Safe from temptation, and. from danger far? 

Strains followed of acknowledgment addressed 

To an Authority eathroned above 

The reach of sight ; from whom, as from their source 

Proceed all visible ministers of good 

That walk the earth — Father of heaven and earth, 

Father, and King, and Judge, adored and feared ! 

Th(3se acts of mind, and memory, and heart, 

And spirit — interrupted and relieved 

By observations transient as the glance 

Of flying sunbeams, or to the outward form 

Cleaving with power inherent and intense. 

As the mute insect fixed upon the plant 

On whose soft leaves it hangs, and from whose cup 

Draws imperceptibly its nourishment — 

Endeared my wanderings ; and the Mother's kiss 

And Infant's, smile awaited my return. 

" In privacy we dwelt — a wedded pair — 
Companions daily, often all day long ; 



Wordsworth's poems 

Not placed by fortune within easy reach 

Of various intercourse, nor wishing auglit 

Beyond the allowance of our own fire-side, 

The Twain within our happy cottage born, 

Inmates, and heirs of our united love ; 

Graced mutually by difference of sex, 

By the endearing names of nature bound. 

And with no wider interval of time 

Between their several births than served for Oue 

To establish something of a leader's sway ; 

Yet left them joined by sympathy in age ; 

Equals in pleasure, fellows in pursuit. 

On these two pillars rested as in air 

Our solitude. 

" It soothes me to perceive. 
Your courtesy withholds not from my words 
Attentive audience. But, oh! gentle Frienis, 
As times of quiet and unbroken peace 
Though, for a Nation, times of blessedness. 
Give back faint echoes from the Historian's page: 
So, in the imperfect sounds of this discourse, 
Depressed I hear, how faithless is the voice 
Which those most blissful days reverberate. 
What special record can, or need, be given 
To rules and habits, whereby much was done, 
But all within the sphere of little things, 
Of humble, though, to us, important cares. 
And precious interests ? Smoothly did our life 
Advance, not swerving from the path prescribed . 
Her annual, her diurnal round alike 
Maintained with faithful care. And you divine 
The worst effects that our condition saw. 
If you imagine changes slowly wrought, 
And in their progress imperceptible ; 



04 Wordsworth's poems. 

Not wished for, sometimes noticed with a sigh, 
(Whate'er of good or lovely they might bring) 
h^ighs of regret, for the familiar good, 
And loveliness endeared — which they removed. 

'Seven years of occupation undisturbed 

Established seemingly a right to hold 

That happiness ; and use and habit gave 

To what an alien spirit had acquired 

A patrimonial sanctity. And thus. 

With thoughts and wishes bounded to this world, 

I lived and breathed ; most grateful, if to enjoy 

Without repining or desire for more 

Por different lot, or change to higher sphere 

(Only except some impulses of pride 

With no determined object, though upheld 

By theories with suitable support) 

Most grateful, if in such wise to enjoy 

Be proof of gratitude for v/hat we have; 

Else, I allow, most thankless. But, at once, 

From some dark seat of fatal Power was urged 

A claim that shattered all. Our blooming Girl, 

Caught in the gripe of Death, with such brief time 

To struggle in as scarcely would allow 

Her cheek to change its color, was conveyed 

From us to regions inaccessible, 

Where height, or depth, admits not the approaci* 

Of living Man, though longing to pursue. 

— With even as brief a warning — and how soon, 

With what short interval of time between, 

I tremble yet to think of — our last prop, 

Our happy life's only remaining stay — 

The Brother followed ; and was seen no more ! 

" Calm as a frozen Lake when ruthless Winds 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS, 

Blow fiercely, agitating- earth and sky, 

The Mother now remained ; as if in her, 

Who, to tlie lowest region of the soul, 

Had heen erewhile unsettled and disturbed, 

This second visitation had no power 

To shake; but only to bind up and seal; 

And to establish thankfulness of heart 

In Heaven's determinations, ever just. 

The eminence on which her spirit stood, 

Mine was unable to attain. Immense 

The space that severed us ! But, as the sight 

Communicates with Heaven's ethereal orba 

Incalculably distant; so, I felt 

That consolation may descend from far; 

(And, that is intercourse, and union, too,) 

While, overcome with speechless gratitude, 

And, with a holier love inspired, I looked 

On her — at once superior to my woes, 

And Partner of my loss. O, heavy change ! 

Dimness o'er this clear Luminary crept 

Insensibly; — the immortal and divine 

Yielded to mortal reflux ; her pure Glory, 

As from the pinnacle of worldly state 

Wretched Ambition drops astounded, fell 

Into a gulf obscure of silent grief, 

And keen heart-anguish — of itself ashamed, 

Yet obstinately cherishing itself: 

And, so consumed, She melted from my arms, 

And left me, on this earth, disconsolate. 

' What follov^'ed cannot be reviewed in thought; 
Much less, retraced in words. If She, of life 
Blameless, so intimate with love and joy. 
And all the tender motions of the Soul, 
Had been supplanted, could I hope to stand — 



94 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Infirm, dependent, and now destitute ? 

I called on dreams and visions, to disclose 

That which is veiled from waking thougiit; conjured 

Eternity, as men constrain a Ghost 

To appear and answer ; to the grave I spake 

Imploringly ; — looked up, and asked the Heavens 

If Angels traversed their cerulean floors, 

If fixed or wandering Star could tidings yield 

Of the departed Spirit — what Abode 

It occupies — what consciousness retains 

Of former loves and interests. Then my Soul 

Turned inward, — to examine of what stuff 

Time's fetters are composed; and Life was put 

To inquisition, long and profitless ! 

By pain of heart — now checked — and now impelled — 

The intellectual Power, through words and things, 

Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way ! 

And from those transports, and these toils abstruse, 

Some trace am I enabled to retain 

Of time, else lost ; — existing unto me 

Only by records in myself not found. 

" From that abstraction I was roused, — and how ? — 

Even as a thoughtful Shepherd by a flash 

Of lightning startled in a gloomy cave 

Of these wild hills. For, lo ! the dread Bastile 

With all the chambers in its horrid Towers, 

Fell to the ground — by violence o'erthrown 

Of indignation; and v/ith shouts that drowned 

The crash it made in falling ! From the wreck 

A golden Palace rose, or seemed to rise. 

The appointed Seat of equitable Law 

And mild paternal Sway. The potent shock 

I felt: the transformation I perceived. 

As marvellously seized as in that moment 



Wordsworth's poems. U? 

When, from the blind mist issuing, I beheld 

Glory — beyond all glory ever seen, — 

Confusion infinite of heaven and earth, 

Dazzling the soul. Meanwhile, prophetic harps 

In every grove were ringing, ' War shall cease ; 

Did ye not hear that conquest is abjured ? 

Bring garlands, bring forth choicest flowers, to deck 

The Tree of Liberty I ' My heart rebounded ; 

My melancholy voice the chorus joined ! 

— ' Be joyful all ye Nations, in all Lands, 

Ye that are capable of Joy, be glad ! 

Henceforth, whate'er is wanting to yourselves, 

In others ye shall promptly find ; — and all, 

Enriched by mutual and reflected wealth. 

Shall with one heart honor their common kind* 

" Thus was I reconverted to the world ; 
Society became my glittering Bride, 
And airy hopes my Children ! From the dei>»,ns 
Of natural passion seemingly escaped, 
My soul diffused herself in wide embrace 
Of institutions, and the forms of things. 
As they exist, in mutable array, 
Upon, ife's surface. What, though in my veins 
There flowed no Gallic blood, nor had I breathed 
The air of France, — not less than Gallic zeal 
Kindled and burnt among the sapless twigs 
Of my exhausted heart. If busy Men 
In sober conclave met, to weave a web 
Of amity, whose living threads should stretch 
Beyond the seas, and to the farthest pole, 
There did I sit, assisting. If, with noise 
And acclamation, crowds in open air 
Expressed the tumult of their minds, my voice 
There mingled, heard or not. The powers of song 
Q 



98 Wordsworth's poems. 

I left not uninvoked; and, in still groves, 

Where mild enthusiasts tuned a pensive lay 

Of thanks and expectation, in accord 

With their belief, I sang Saturnian Rule 

Returned — a progeny of golden years 

Permitted to descend, and bless mankind. 

— With promises the Hebrew Scriptures JEtm: 

I felt the invitation ; and resumed 

A long-suspended office in the House 

Of public worship, where, the glowing phrase 

Of ancient Inspiration serving me, 

I promised also — with undaunted trust 

Foretold, and added prayer to prophecy ; 

The admiration winning of the crowd ; 

The help desiring of the pure devout. 

" Scorn and contempt forbid me to proceed ! 

But History, Time's slavish Scribe, will tell 

How rapidly the Zealots of the cause 

Disbanded — or in hostile ranks appeared ; 

Some, tired of honest service ; these, outdone, 

Disgusted, therefore, or appalled, by aims 

Of fiercer Zealots — so Confusion reigned. 

And the more faithful were compelled to exclaim, 

As Brutus did to Virtue, — ' Liberty, 

[ worshipped Thee, and find thee but a Shade ! ' 

" Such recantation had for me no charm, 

Nor would I bend to it; who should have grieved 

At aught, however fair, that bore the mien 

Of a conclusion, or catastrophe. 

Why then conceal, that, when the simply good 

In timid selfishness withdrew, I sought 

Other support, not scrupulous whence it came, 

And, by what compromise it stood, not nice'*' 



Wordsworth's poems. 1^ 

Enough if notions seemed to be high-pitched, 

And qualities determined. Among men 

So charactered did I maintain a strife 

Hopeless, and still more hopeless every hour ; 

But, in the process, I began to feel 

That, if the emancipation of the world 

Were missed, I should at least secure my own. 

And be in part compensated. For rights, 

Widely — inveterately usurped upon, 

I spake with vehemence ; and promptly seized 

Whate'er Abstraction furnished for my needs 

Or purposes ; nor scrupled to proclaim, 

And propagate, by liberty of life, 

Those new persuasions. Not that I rejoiced, 

Or even found pleasure, in such vagrant course, 

For its own sake ; but farthest from the walk 

Which I had trod, in happiness and peace, 

Was most inviting to a troubled mind. 

That, in a struggling and distempered world. 

Saw a seductive image of herself. 

Yet, mark the contradictions of which Man 

Is still the sport ! Here Nature was my guide, 

The Nature of the dissolute ; but Thee, 

fostering Nature ! I rejected — smiled 
At others' tears in pity ; and in scorn 

At those, which thy sott influence sometimes arew 
From my unguarded heart. The tranquil shores 
Of Britain circumscribed me ; else, perhaps, 

1 might have been entangled among deeds. 
Which, now, as infamous, I should abhor — 
Despise, as senseless : for my spirit relished 
Strangely the exasperation of that Land, 
Which turned an angry beak against the down 
Of her own breast ; confounded into hope 

Of disencumberinof thus her fretful wings. 



100 Wordsworth's poems. 

— But all was quieted by iron bonds 

Of military sway. The shifting aims, 

The moral interests, the creative might. 

The varied functions and high attributes 

Of civil Action, yielded to a Power 

Formal, and odious, and contemptible. 

— In Britain, ruled a panic dread of change ; 

The weak were praised, rewarded, and advanced ; 

And, from the impulse of a just disdain. 

Once more did I rettre into myself. 

There feeling no contentment, I resolved 

To fly, for safeguard, to some foreign shore. 

Remote from Europe ; from her blasted hopes, 

Her fields of carnage, and polluted air. 

Fresh blew the wind, when o'er the Atlantic Main 

The Ship went gliding with her thoughtless crew ; 

And who among them but an Exile, freed 

From discontent, indifferent, pleased to sit 

Among the busily-employed, not more 

With obligation charged, with service taxed, 

Than the loose pendant, to the idle wind 

Upon the tall mast streaming; — but, ye Powers 

Of soul and sense — mysteriously allied, 

O, never let the Wretched, if a choice 

Be left him, trust the freight of his distress 

To a long voyage on the silent deep ! 

For, like a Plague, will Memory break out; 

And, in the blank and solitude of things, 

LFpon his Spirit, with a fever's strength. 

Will Conscience prey. Feebly must they have felt 

Who, in old time, attired with snakes and whips 

The vengeful Furies. Beautiful regards 

Were turned on me — the face of her I loved 

The Wife and Mother, pitifully fixing 



Wordsworth's poems. lOJ 

Tender reproaches, insupportable! 

Where now that boasted liberty ? No welcome 

From unknown Objects I received ; and those, 

Known and familiar, which the vaulted sky 

Did, in the placid clearness of the night, 

Disclose, had accusations to prefer 

Ag-ainst my peace. Within the cabin stood 

That Volunie — as a compass for the soul — 

Revered among the Nations. I implored 

Its oruidance ; but the infallible support 

Of faith was wanting. Tell me, why refused 

To one by storms annoyed and adverse winds ; 

Perplexed with currents ; of his weakness sick ; 

Of vain endeavors tired ; and by his own. 

And by his Nature's, ignorance, dismayed ? 

" Long-wished-for sight, the Western World appeared 
And, Avhen the Ship was moored, I leaped ashore 
Indignantly — resolved to be a Man, 
Who, having o'er the past no power, would live 
No longer in subjection to the past. 
With abject mind — from a tyrannic Lord 
Inviting penance, fruitlessly endured. 
So, like a Fugitive, whose feet have cleared 
Some boundary, which his Followers may not crossr 
In prosecution of their deadly chase, 
Respiring I looked round. How bright the Sun ! 
How promising the Breeze! Can aught produced 
In the old World compare, thought I, for power, 
And majesty with this gigantic Stream, 
Sprung from the Desert? And behold a City 
Fresh, youthful, and aspiring ! What are these 
To me, or I to them ? As much at least 
As He desires that they should be, whom winds 
And waves have wafted to this distant shore. 
9* 



02 Wordsworth's poems. 

In the condition of a damaged seed, 

Whose fibres cannot, if they would, take root. 

Here may I roam at large ; — my business is 

Roaming a*: large, to observe, and not to feel ; 

And, therefore, not to act — convinced that all 

Which bears the name of action, howsoe'er 

Beginning, ends in servitude — still painful. 

And mostly profitless. And, sooth to say. 

On nearer view, a motley spectacle 

Appeared, of high pretensions — unreproved 

But by the obstreperous voice of higher still ; 

Big Passions strutting on a petty stage ; 

Which a detached Spectator may regard 

Not unamused. But ridicule demands 

Quick change of objects ; and, to laugh alone, 

At a composing distance from the haunts 

Of strife and folly, — though it be a treat 

As choice as musing Leisure can bestow ; 

Yet, in the very centre of the crowd, 

To keep the secret of a poignant scorn, 

Howe'er to airy Demons suitable. 

Of all unsocial courses, is least fit 

For the gross spirit of Mankind, — the one 

That soonest fails to please, and quickliest turns 

Into vexation. Let us, then, I said, 

Leave this unknit Republic to the scourge 

Of her own passions ; and to Regions haste. 

Whose shades have never felt the encroaching a 

Or soil endured a transfer in the mart 

Of dire rapacity. There, Man abides. 

Primeval Nature's Child. A Creature weak 

In combination, (wherefore else driven back 

So far, and of his old inheritance 

So easily deprived ?' but, for that cause, 

More dignified, and stronger in himself; 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Whether to act, judo^e, suffer, or enjoy. 
True, the Intelligence of social Art 
Hath overpowered his Forefathers, and soon 
Will sweep the remnant of his line away ; 
But contemplations, worthier, nobler far 
Than her destructive energies, attend 
Hie Independence, when along the side 
Of Mississippi, or that Northern Stream 
That spreads into successive seas, he walks; 
Pleased to perceive his own unshackled life 
And his innate capacities of soul, 
There imaged: or, when having gained the tof 
Of some commanding Eminence, which yet 
Intruder ne'er beheld, he thence surveys 
Regions of wood and wide Savannah, vast 
Expanse of unappropriated earth. 
With mind that sheds a light on wliat he sees 
Free as the Sun, and lonely as the San, 
Pouring above his head its radiance down 
Upon a living and rejoicing World I 

"So, westward, toward the unviolated Woods 

I bent my way ; and, roaming far and wide, 

Failed not to greet the merry Mocking-bird ; 

And, while the melancholy Muccawiss 

(The sportive Bird's companion in the Grove) 

Repeated o'er and o'er his plaintive cry, 

I sympathized at leisure with the sound ; 

But that pure Archetype of human greatness, 

I found him not. There, in his stead, appeared 

A Creature, squalid, vengeful, and impure ; 

Remorseless, and submissive to no law 

But superstitious fear, and abject sloth. 

— Enough is told ! Here am I — Ye have heard 

What evidence I seek, and vainly seek 



lOi 



104 Wordsworth's poems. 

What from my Fellow-beings I require, 

And cannot find ; what I myself have lost, 

Nor can regain ; how languidly I look 

Upon this visible fabric of the World 

May be divined — perhaps it hath been said: — 

But spare your pity, if there be in me 

Aught that deserves respect; for I exist — 

Within myself — not comfortless. The tenor 

Which my life holds, he readily may conceive 

Whoe'er hath stood to watch a mountain Brook . 

In some still passage of its course, and seen, 

Within the depths of its capacious breast, 

Inverted trees, and rocks, and azure sky ; 

And, on its glassy surface, specks of foam, 

And conglobated bubbles undissolved. 

Numerous as stars ; that, by their onward lapse, 

Betray to sight the motion of the stream. 

Else imperceptible ; meanwhile, is heard 

A softened roar, a murmur ; and the sound 

Though soothing, and the little floating isles 

Though beautiful, are both by Nature charged 

With the same pensive office ; and make known 

Through what perplexing labyrinths, abrupt 

Precipitations, and untoward straits. 

The earth-born Wanderer hath passed ; and qnicklj 

That respite o'er, like traverses and toils 

Must be again encountered. Such a stream 

Is human Life; and so the Spirit fares 

In the best quiet to its course allowed ; 

And such is mine, — save only for a hope 

That my particular current soon will reach 

The unfathomable gulf, where all is still!" 



THE EXCURSION. 



BOOK THE FOURTH. 

DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 

ARGUMENT. 

State of feeling produced by the foregoing Narrative — A belief in a 
superintending Providence the only adequate support under alF^iction 

— Wanderer's ejaculation — Account of his own devotional feelings 
in youth involved — Acknowledges the difficulty of a lively faith — 
Hence immoderate sorrow — Doubt or despondence not therefore to 
be inferred — Consolation to the Solitary — Exhortations — How re- 
ceived — Wanderer applies his discourse to that other cause of dejec- 
tion in the Solitary's mind — Disappointment fiora the French Revo- 
lution — States grounds of hope — Insists on the necessity of patience 
and fortitude with respect to the course of great revolutions — Know- 
ledge the source of tranquillity — Rural Solitude favorable to know- 
ledge of the inferior Creatures — Study of their habits and ways 
recommended — Exhortation to bodily exertion and communion with 
Nature — Morbid Solitude pitiable — Superstition better than apathy 

— Apathy and destitution unknown in the infancy of society — The 
various modes of Religion prevented it — Illustrated in the Jewish, 
Persian, Babylonian, Chaldean, and Grecian modes of belief — Soli- 
tary interposes — Wanderer points out the influence of religious and 
imaginative feeling in the humble ranks of society — Illustrated from 
present and past times — These principles tend to recall exploded 
superstitions and Popery — AVanderer rebuts this charge, and con- 
trasts the dignities of the Imagination with the presumptive littleness 
of certam modern Philosophers — Recommends other lights and 
guides — Asserts the power of the Soul to regenerate herselt' — Soli- 



106 Wordsworth's poems. 

tary asks how — Reply — Personal appeal — Happy that the iftiagina' 
tion and the affections mitigate the evils of that intellecxuai slavery 
which the calculating understanding is apt to produce — Exhortation 
to activity of body renewed — How to commune with Nature — 
Wanderer concludes with a legitimate union of the imagination, 
affections, understanding, and reason — Effect of his discourse - 
Evening^— Return to the Cottage. 

[Ierf closed the Tenant of that lonely vale 
His mournful Narrative — commenced in pain, 
In pain commenced, and ended without peace; 
Yet tempered, not unfrequently, with strains 
Of native feeling, grateful to our minds; 
And doubtless yielding some relief to his, 
While we sate listening with compassion due. 
Such pity yet surviving, with firm voice 
That did not falter though the heart was moved, 
The Wanderer said — 

" One adequate support 
For the calamities of mortal life 
Exists — one only ; — an assured belief 
That the procession of our fate, howe'er 
Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being 
Of infinite benevolence and power ; 
Whose everlasting purposes embrace 
All accidents, converting them to good. 
— The darts of anguish j^a: not where the seat 
Of suflTering hath been thoroughly fortified 
By acquiescence in the Will Supreme 
For Time and for Eternity; by faith, 
Faith absolute in God, including hope, 
And the defence that lies in boundless love 
Of his perfections; with habitual dread 
Of aught unworthily conceived, endur3a 
Impatiently; ill-done, or left undone. 
To the dishonor of his holy Name 



Wordsworth's poems. 107 

Soul of our Souls, and safeguard of the world ! 
Sustain, Thou only canst, the sick of heart ; 
Restore their languid spirits, and recall 
Their lost affections unto Thee and thine ' " 

Then, as we issued from that covert Nook, 

He thus continued — lifting up his eyes 

To Heaven — " How beautiful this dome of sky. 

And the vast hills, in fluctuation fixed 

At thy command, how awful ! Shall the Soul, 

Huoaan and rational, report of Thee 

Even less than these ? Be mute who will, who can, 

Yet I will praise thee with impassioned voice : 

My lips, that may forget thee in the crowd. 

Cannot forget thee here ; where Thou hast built. 

For thy own glory, in the wilderness ! 

Me didst thou constitute a Priest of thine, 

In such a Temple as we now behold 

Reared for thy presence : therefore, am I bound 

To worship here, and every where — as One 

Not doomed to ignorance, though forced to tread, 

From childhood up, the ways of poverty ; 

From unreflecting ignorance preserved, 

And from debasement rescued. By thy grace 

The particle divine remained unquenched ; 

And, 'mid the wild weeds of a rugged soil, 

Thy bounty caused to flourish deathless flowers 

From Paradise transplanted; wintry age 

Impends ; the frost will gather round my heart ; 

And, if they wither, I am worse than dead ! 

— Come, Labor, when the worn-out frame requiies 

Perpetual sabbath ; come, disease and want ; 

And sad exclusion through decay of sense ; 

But leave me unabated trust in Thee ! 

And let thy ftivor, to the end of life. 



108 Wordsworth's poems. 

Inspire me with ability to seek 
Repose and hope among eternal things — 
Father of heaven and earth ! and I am rich 
And will possess my portion in content! 

"And what are things Eternal? — Powers depart,'* 

The gray-haired Wanderer steadfastly replied, 

Answering the question which himself had asked, 

" Possessions vanish, and opinions change, 

And Passions hold a fluctuating seat: 

But, by the storms of circumstance unshaken, 

And subject neither to eclipse nor wane, 

Duty exists ; — immutably survive. 

For our support, the measures and the forms, 

Which an abstract Intelligence supplies ; ' 

Whose kingdom is, Avhere Time and Space are not. 

Of other converse which mind, soul, and heart, 

Do with united urgency require, 

What more that may not perish ? Thou, dread Source 

Prime, self-existing Cause and End of all, 

That, in the scale of Being, fill their place. 

Above our human region, or below, 

Set and sustained ; — Thou, who didst wrap the clouc 

Of Infancy around us, that Thyself, 

Therein, with our simplicity a while 

Mightest hold, on earth, communion undisturbed — 

Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep. 

Or from its death-like void, with punctual care, 

And touch as gentle as the morning light, 

Restorest us, daily, to the powers of sense, 

And reason's steadfast rule — Thou, Thou alone 

Art everlasting, and the blessed Spirits, 

Which thou includest, as the Sea her Waves: 

For adoration thou endur'st; endure 

For consciousness the motions of thy will ; 



woR ^.uTh's poems. IOi< 

For apprehension those transcendent truths 

Of the pure Intellect, that stand as laws, 

(Submission constitutincr strength and power,) 

Even to thy Being's infinite majesty! 

This Universe shall pass away — a work 

Glorious ! because the shadow of thy might, 

A step, or link, for intercourse with Thee. 

Ah ! if the time must come, in which my feet 

No more shall stray where Meditation loads. 

By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild. 

Loved haunts like these, the unimprisoned Mind 

May yet have scope to range among her own, 

Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. 

If the dear faculty of sight should fail, 

Still, it may be allowed me to remember 

What visionary powers of eye and soul 

In youth were mine ; when, stationed on the top 

Of some huge hill — expectant, I beheld 

The Sun rise up, from distant climes returned 

Darkness to chase, and sleep, and bring the day 

His bounteous gift ! or saw him toward the Deep 

Sink — with a retinue of flaming clouds 

Attended ; then, my Spirit was entranced 

With joy exalted to beatitude ; 

The measure of my soul was filled with bliss. 

And holiest love; as earth, sea, air, with light. 

With pomp, with glory, with magnificence ! 

''Those fervent raptures are for ever flown: 
And, since their date, my Soul hath undergone 
Change manifold, for better or for worse: 
Yet cease I not to struggle, and aspire 
Heavenward; and chide the part of me t.iit flags, 
Through sinful choice ; or dread necessity. 
On human Nature from above imposed. 
10 



no Wordsworth's POEMi). 

'Tis, by comparison, an easy task 

Earth to despise ; but, to converse with Heaven - 

This is not easy : — to relinquish all 

We have, or hope, of happiness and joy, 

And stand in freedom loosened from this world. 

I deem not arduous: — but must needs confess 

That 'tis a thing impossible to frame 

Conceptions equal to the Soul's desires ; 

And the most difficult of tasks to keep 

Heights which the soul is competent to gain. 

— Man is of dust : ethereal hopes are his, 
Which, when they should sustain themselves alofl, 
Want due consistence ; like a pillar of smoke, 
That with majestic energy from earth 

Rises ; but, having reached the thinner air. 

Melts, and dissolves, and is no longer seen. 

From this infirmity of mortal kind 

Sorrow proceeds, which else were not ; — at leaet, 

If Grief be something hallowed and ordained. 

If, in proportion, it be just and meet. 

Through this, 'tis able to maintain its hold. 

In that excess which Conscience disapproves. 

For who could sink and settle to that point 

Of selfishness ; so senseless who could be 

As long and perseveringly to mourn 

For any Object of his love, removed 

From this unstable world, if he could fix 

A satisfying view upon that state 

Of pure, imperishable blessedness, 

Which reason promises, and Holy Writ 

Insures to all Believers? Yet mistrust 

Is of such incapacity, methinks. 

No natural branch ; despondency far less. 

— And, if there be whose tender frames have drooped 



Wordsworth's POEMS. II i 

Even to the dust; apparently, through weight 

Of anguish unrelieved, and lack of power 

An agonizing sorrow to transmute, 

Infer not hence a hope from those withheld 

When wanted most; a confidence nupaired 

So pitiably, that, having ceased to see 

With bodily eyes, they are borne down by love 

Of what is lost, and perish through regret. 

Oh ! no, full oft the innocent Sufferer sees 

Too clearly ; feels too vividly ; and longs 

To realize the Vision, with intense 

And over-constant yearning — there — there lies 

The excess, by which the balance is destroyed. 

Too, too contracted are these walls of flesh, 

Tliis vital warmth too cold, these visual orbs, 

Though inconceivably endowed, too dim 

For any passion of the soul that leads 

To ecstasy ; and, all the crooked paths 

Of time and change disdaining, takes its course 

Along the line of limitless desires. 

I, speaking now from such disorder free, 

Nor rapt, nor craving, but in settled peace, 

I cannot doubt that They whom you deplore 

Are glorified ; or, if they sleep, shall wake 

From sleep, and dwell with God in endless lova 

Hope, below this, consists not with belief 

In ir.ercy, carried infinite degrees 

Beyond the tenderness of human hearts : 

Hope, below this, consists not with belief 

In perfect Wisdom, guiding mightiest Power, 

That finds no limits but her own pure Will. 

" Here then we rest ; not fearing for our creed 
The worst that human reasoning can achieve, 
To unsettle or perplex it : yet with pain 



112 Wordsworth's poems. 

Acknowledging', and grievous self-reproach. 

That, though immovably convinced, we wain 

Zeal, and the virtue to exist by faith. 

As Soldiers live by courage ; as, by strength 

Of heart, the Sailor fights with roaring seas, 

Alas ! the endowment of immortal Power 

[s matched unequally with custom, time, 

And domineering faculties of sense 

In all; in most with superadded foes, 

[die temptations — open vanities. 

Ephemeral offspring of the unblushing world ; 

And, in the private regions of the mind, 

Ill-governed passions, ranklings of despite, 

Immoderate wishes, pining discontent, 

Distress and care. What then remains? — To seek 

Those helps, for his occasions ever near, 

Who lacks not will to use them; vows, renewed 

On the first motion of a holy thought ; 

Vigils of contemplation, praise, and prayer — 

A Stream, which, from the fountain of the heart 

Issuing, however feebly, nowhere flows 

Without access of unexpected strength. 

But, above all, the victory is most sure 

For Him, who, seeking faith by virtue, strives 

To yield entire submission to the law 

Of Conscience ; Conscience reverenced and obeyed, 

As God's most intimate Presence in the soul, 

And his most perfect Image in the world. 

— Endeavor thus to live; these rules regard; 

These helps solicit ; and a steadfast seat 

Shall then be yours among the happy few 

Who dwell on earth, yet breathe empyreal air. 

Sons of the morning. For your nobler Part, 

Ere disencumbered of her mortal chains. 

Doubt shall be quelled and trouble chased away 



WORDSWORTH S POEMS. IIH 

With onl) such degree of sadness left 
As may support longings of pure desire ; 
And strengthen love, rejoicing secretly 
In the sublime attractions of the Grave." 

While, in this strain, the venerable Sage 
Poured forth his aspirations, and announced 
His judgments, near that lonely House we paced 
A plot of green-sward, seemingly preserved 
By nature's care from wreck of scattered stones, 
And from encroachment of encircling heath : 
Small space ! but, for reiterated steps. 
Smooth and commodious ; as a stately deck 
Which to and fro the Mariner is used 
To tread for pastime, talking with his Mates, 
Or haply thinking of far-distant Friends, 
While the Ship glides before a steady breeze, 
Stillness prevailed around us : and the Voice, 
That spake, was capable to lift the soul 
Toward regions yet more tranquil. But, methought, 
That He, whose fixed despondency had given 
Impulse and motive to that strong discourse. 
Was less upraised in spirit than abashed ; 
Shrinking from admonition, like a man 
Who feels, that to exhort, is to reproach. 
Yet not to be diverted from his aim, 
The Sage continued — " For that other loss. 
The loss of confidence in social Man, 
By the unexpected transports of our Age 
Carried so high, that every thought — which locked 
Beyond the temporal destiny of the Kind 
To many seemed superfluous ; as, no cause 
For such exalted confidence could e'er 
Exist ; so, none is now for fixed despair ; 
The two extremes are equally disowned 
10* 



114 Wordsworth's poems. 

By reason; if, with sharp recoil, from one 

Vau have been driven far as its opposite, 

Between them seek the point whereon to build 

Sound expectations. So doth he advise 

Who shared at first the illusion ; but was soon 

Cast from the pedestal of pride by shocks 

Which Nature gently gave, in woods and lEields ; 

Nor unreproved by Providence, thus speaking 

To the inattentive Children of the World, 

' Vain-glorous Generation ! w.hat new powers 

On you have been conferred ? Avhat gifts, withheld 

From your Progenitors, have Ye received, 

Fit recompense of new desert ? what claim 

Are ye prepared to urge, that my decrees 

For you should undergo a sudden change ; 

And tlie weak functions of one busy day, 

Reclaiming and extirpating, perform 

What all the slowly-moving Years of Time, 

With their united force, have left undone ? 

By Nature's gradual processes be taught ; 

By Story be confounded ! Ye aspire 

Rashly, to fall once more ; and that false fruit, 

Which, to your overweening spirits, yields 

Hope of a flight celestial, will produce 

Misery and shame. But wisdom of her sons 

Shall not the less, though late, be justified.' 

Such timely warning," said the Wanderer, " gave 

That visionary Voice ; and, at this day, 

When a Tartarian darkness overspreads 

The groaning nations ; when the Impious rule, 

By will or by established ordinance. 

Their own dire agents, and constrain the Good 

To acts which they abhor ; though I bewail 

This triumph, yet the pity of my heart 

Prevents me from owning, that the .aw 



Wordsworth's poems. 

By which Mankind now suffers, is most just 

For by superior energies ; more strict 

Affiance in each other ; faith more firm 

In their unhallowed principles ; the Bad 

Have fairly earned a victory o'er the weak, 

The vacillating, inconsistent Good. 

Therefore, not unconsoled, I wait — in hope 

To see the moment, when the righteous Cause 

Shall gain Defenders zealous and devout 

As they who have opposed ner ; in which Virtue 

Will, to her efforts, tolerate no bounds 

That are not lofty as her rights ; aspiring 

By impulse of her own ethereal zeal. 

That Spirit only can redeem Mankind ; 

And when that sacred Spirit shall appear, 

Then shall our triumph be complete as theirs. 

Yet, should this confidence prove vain, the Wise 

Have still the keeping of their proper peace ; 

Are guardians of their own tranquility. 

They act, or they recede, observe, and feel ; 

' Knowing the heart of m^n is set to be 

The centre of this World, about the which 

Those revolutions of disturbances 

Still roll ; where all the aspects of misery 

Predominate ; whose strong effects are such 

As he must bear, being powerless to redress ; 

And that unless above himself he can 

Erect himself, hoiv poor a thing is Man ! ' 

" Happy is He who lives to understand — 
Not human Nature only, but explores 
All natures, — to the end that he may find 
The law that governs each ; and where begins 
The union, the partition where, that makes 
Kind and degree, among all visible Beings • 



IJG Wordsworth's poems. 

The constitutions, powers and faculties, 
Which they inherit, — cannot step beyond, — 
And cannot fall beneath ; that do assign 
To every Class its station and its office, 
Through all the mighty Commonwealth of things; 
Up from the creeping plant to sovereign Man. 
Such Converse, if directed by a meek, 
Sincere, and humble Spirit, teaches love ; 
For knoAvledge is delight ; and such delight 
Breeds love ; yet, suited as it rather is 
To thought and to the climbing intellect, 
It teaches less to love, than to adore ; 
If that be not indeed the highest Love ! " 

" Yet," said I, tempted here to intepose, 
" The dignity of Life is not impaired 
By aught that innocently satisfies 
The humbler cravings of the heart ; and He 
Is a still happier Man, who, for those heights 
Of speculation not unfit, descends ; 
And such benign affections cultivates 
Among the inferior Kinds ; not merely those 
That he may call his own, and which depend, 
As individual objects of regard, 
Upon his care, — from whom he also looks 
For signs and tokens of a mutual bond, — 
But others, far beyond this narrow sphere, 
Whom, for the very sake of love, he loves. 
Nor is it a mean praise of rural life 
And solitude, that they do favor most. 
Most frequently call forth, and best sustain 
These pure sensations ; that can penetrate 
The obstreperous City ; on the barren Seas 
Are not unfelt, — and much migh^ -recommend, 



Wordsworth's poems. 1 17 

How much they might inspirit and endear, 
The loneliness of this sublime Retreat ! " 

"Yes," said the Sage, resuming the discourse 

Again directed to his downcast Friend, 

"If, with the froward will and grovelling soul 

Of Man offended, liberty is here, 

And invitation every hour renewed, 

To marl: their placid state, who never heard 

Of a command which they have power to break, 

Or rule which they are tempted to transgress ; 

These, with a soothed or elevated heart. 

May we behold ; their knowledge register ; 

Observe their ways ; and, free from envy, find 

Complacence there : — but wherefore this to You ? 

I guess that, welcome to your lonely hearth. 

The Redbreast feeds in winter from your hand ; 

A box, perchance, is from your casement hung 

For the small Wren to build in; — not in vain, 

The barriers disregarding that surround 

This deep Abiding-place, before your sight 

Mounts on the breeze the Butterfly — and soars, 

Small Creature as she is, from earth's brigljt flowers 

Into the dewy clouds. Ambition reigns 

In the waste wilderness : the Soul ascends 

Towards her native firmament of heaven, 

When the fresh Eagle, in the month of May, 

Upborne, at evening, on replenished wing, 

This shaded valley leaves, — and leaves the dark 

Empurpled hills, — conspicuously renewing 

A proud communication with the sun 

Low sunk beneath the horizon! — List! — I heard. 

From yon huge breast of rock, a solemn bleat ; 

Sent forth as if it were the Mountain's voice, 

As if the visible Mountain made the crv. 



j18 Wordsworth's poems. 

Ag-ain ! — The effect upon the soul was such 

As he expressed from out the mountain's heart 

The solemn bleat appeared to issue, startling 

The blank air — for the region all around 

Stood silent, empty of all shape of life ; 

— It was a Lamb — left somewhere to itself, 

The plaintive Spirit of the Solitude ! — 

lie paused, as if unwilling to proceed, 

Through consciousness that silence in such place 

Was best, — the most affecting eloquence. 

But soon his thoughts returned upon themselves. 

And, in soft tone of speech, he thus resumed: — 

"Ah! if the heart, too confidently raised, 

Perchance too lightly occupied, or lulled 

Too easily, despise or overlook 

The vassalage that binds her to the earth, 

Her sad dependence upon time, and all 

The trepidations of mortality, 

What place so destitute and void — but there 

The little Flower her vanity shall check, 

The trailing Worm reprove her thoughtless pride ■ 

"These craggy regions, these chaotic wilds, 
Does that benignity pervade, that warms 
The Mole contented with her darksome walk 
In the cold ground; and to the Emmet gives 
Her foresight, and intelligence that makes 
The tiny Creatures strong by social league ; 
Supports the generations, multiplies 
Their tribes, till we behold a spacious plain 
Or grassy bottom, all, with little hills — 
Their labor — covered, as a Lake with waves; 
Thousands of Cities, in the desert place, 
Built up of life, and food, and means of life ' 



WORDS tVORTH S POEMS. Hj 

Nor wanting- here, to^ntertain the thought, 

Creatures that in communities exist. 

Less, as might seem, for general guardianship 

Or *hrough dependence upon mutual aid, 

Than by participation of delight 

And a strict love of fellowship, combined. 

What other spirit can it be that prompts 

The gilded summer Flies to mix and weave 

Their sports together in the solar beam. 

Or in the gloom of twilight hum their joy ? 

More obviously, the selfsame influence rules 

The Feathered kinds; the Fieldfare's pensive flork, 

The cawing Rooks, and Sea-mews from afar. 

Hovering above these inland Solitudes, 

By the rough wind unscattered, at whose call 

Their voyage was begun : nor is its power 

Unfelt among the sedentary Fowl 

That seek yon Pool, and there prolong their stay 

In silent congress ; or together roused 

Take flight; while with their clang the air resounds 

And, over all, in that ethereal vault. 

Is the mute company of changeful clouds ; 

— Bright apparition suddenly put forth 1 

The Rainbow, smiling on the faded storm ; 

The mild assemblage of the starry heavens; 

And the great Sun, earth's universal Lord ! 

" How bountiful is Nature ! he shall find 

Who seeks not; and to him ^vho hath not asked 

Large measure shall be dealt. Three sabbath days 

Are scarcely told, since, on a service bent 

Of mere humanity, You clomb those Heights ; 

And what a marvellous and heavenly Show 

Was to your sight revealed ! The Swains moved on 

And heeded not ; you lingered, and perceived. 



120 Wordsworth's poems. 

There is a luxury in self-disprafte ; 

And inward self-disparagement affords 

To meditative Spleen a grateful feast. 

Trust me, pronouncing on your own desert, 

You judge unthankfully ; distempered nerves 

Infect the thoughts : the languor of the Frame 

Depresses the Soul's vigor. Quit your Couch — 

Cleave not so fondly to your moody Cell ; 

Nor let the hallowed Powers, that shed from heaven 

Stillness and rest, with disapproving eye 

Look down upon your paper, through a watch 

Of midnight hours, unseasonably twinkling 

In this deep Hollow, like a sullen star 

Dimly reflected in a lonely pool. 

Take courage, and withdraw yourself from ways 

That run not parallel to Nature's course. 

Rise with the Lark! your Matins shall obtain 

Grace, be their composition what it may, 

If but with hers performed ; climb once again. 

Climb every day, those ramparts ; meet the breeze 

Upon their tops, — adventurous as a Bee 

That from your garden thither soars, to feed 

On new-blown heath; let yon commanding rock 

Be your frequented Watch-tower ; roll the stone 

In thunder down the mountains; with all your mig!it 

Chase the wild Goat; and, if the bold red Deer 

Fly to these harbors, driven by hound and horn 

Loud echoing, add your speed to the pursuit 

So, wearied to your Hut shall you return, 

And sink at evening into sound repose," 

The Solitary lifted toward the hills 

A kindling eye ; — poetic feelings rusJied 

Into my bosom, whence these words broke forth- 

" Oh ! what a joy it were, ii vigorous health 



Wordsworth's poems. 15) 

To have a Body, (this our vital frame 

With shrinking sensibility endued, 

And all the nice regards of flesh and blood,) 

And to the elements surrender it 

As if it were a Spirit! — How divine, 

The liberty, for frail, for mortal man, 

To roam at large among unpeopled glens 

And mountainous retirements, only trod 

By devious footsteps ; regions consecrate 

To oldest time ! and, reckless of the storm 

That keeps the raven quiet in her nest. 

Be as a Presence or a motion — one 

Among the many there ; and, while the Mists 

Flying, and rainy Vapors, call out Shapes 

And Phantoms from the crags and solid earth 

As fast as a Musician scatters sounds 

Out of an instrument ; and, while the Streams -— 

(As at a first creation, and in haste 

'i'o exercise their untried faculties,) 

Descending from the region of the clouds, 

And starting from the hollows of the earth. 

More multitudinous every moment, rend 

Their Avay before them — what a joy to roam 

An equal among mightiest Energies ; 

And haply sometimes with articulate voice, 

Amid the deafening tumult, scarcely heard 

By him that utters it, exclaim aloud, — 

' Be this continued so from day to day. 

Nor let the fierce commotion have an end, 

Ruinous though it be, from month to month 1 ' " 

" Yes," said the Wanderer, taking from my lips 
The strain of transport, " whosoe'er in youth 
Has, through ambition of his soul, given way 
To such desires, and grasped at such delight, 
11 



122 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Shall feel congenial stirrings late and long, 
In spite of all the weakness that life brings, 
Its cares and sorrows ; he, though taught to own 
The tranquillizing power of time, shall wake. 
Wake sometimes to a noble restlessness — 
Loving the sports which once he gloried in. 

" Compatriot, Friend, remote are Garry's Hills, 

The Streams far distant of your native Glen ; 

Yet is their form and Image here expressed 

With brotherly resemblance. Turn your steps 

Wherever fancy leads, by day, by night, 

Are various engines working, not the same 

As those by which your soul in youth was movo.sl 

But by the great Artiticer endued 

With no inferior power. You dwell alone; 

You walk, you live, you speculate alone ; 

Yet doth Remembrance, like a sovereign Prince, 

For you a stately gallery maintain 

Of gay or tragic pictures. You have seen. 

Have acted, suffered, travelled far, observed 

With no incurious eye ; and books are yours, 

Within whose silent chambers treasure lies 

Preserved from age to age ; more precious far 

Than that accumulated store of gold 

And orient gems, which, for a day of need, 

The Sultan hides within ancestral tombs. 

These hoards of truth you can unlock at will . 

And music waits upon your skilful touch, 

Sounds which the wandering Shepherd from thirds 

Heights 
Hears, and forgets his purpose ; — furnished thus, 
How can you droop, if willing to be raised ? 

" A piteous lot it were to flee from Man -— 



Wordsworth's poems. 1*23 

Vet not rejoice in Nature ! He, whose houra 

Are by domestic Pleasures uncaressed 

And unenlivened ; who exists whole years 

Apart from benefits received or done 

'Mid the transactions of the bustling crowd 

Who neither hears, nor feels a vvish to hear, 

or the world's interests — such a One hath need 

Of a quick fancy, and an active heart, 

Tliat, for the day's consumption, books may yield 

A not unwholesome food, and earth and air 

Supply his morbid humor with deliglit. 

— Truth has her pleasure-grounds, her haunts of ease 

And easy contemplation — gay parterres. 

And labyrinthine walks, her sunny glades 

And shady groves for recreation framed. 

These may he range, if willing to partake 

Their soft indulgences, and in due time 

May issue thence, recruited for the tasks 

And course of service Truth requires from those 

Who tend her Altars, wait upon her Throne, 

And guard her Fortresses. W^ho thinks, and foele, 

And recognises ever and anon 

The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul, 

Wiiy need such man go desperately astray. 

And nurse ' the dreadful appetite of death t ' 

If tired with Systems — each in its degree 

Substantial — and all crumbling in their tarn, ' 

Let him build Systems of his own, and smile 

At the fond work — demolished with a touch ! 

If unreligious, let him be at once. 

Among ton thousand Innocents, enrolled 

A Pupil in the many-chambered school. 

Where Superstition weaves her airy dreams. 

" Life's Autumn past, I stand on Winter's verga, 



124 Wordsworth's poems. 

And daily lose what I desire to keep : 

Yet rather would I instantly decline 

To the traditionary sympathies 

Of a most rustic ig-norance, and take 

A fearful apprehension from the owl 

Or death-watch, — ajid as readily rejoice, 

If two auspicious mag-pies crossed *my way; 

To this would rather bend than see and hear 

The repititions wearisome of sense. 

Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place ; 

Where knowledge, ill beg-un in cold remark 

On outward things, with formal inference ends : 

Or, if the Mind tiirn inward, 'tis perplexed. 

Lost in a gloom of uninspired research ; 

Meanwhile, the Heart within the Heart, the seat 

Where Peace and happy Consciousness should dwell, 

On its own axis restlessly revolves. 

Yet nowhere finds the cheering light of truth. 

'' Upon the breast of new-created Earth 

Mail walked ; and when and wheresoe'er he niov ed, 

Alone or mated. Solitude was not. 

He heard, upon the wind, the articulate Voice 

Of God ; and Angels to his sight appeared, 

Crowning the glorious hills of Paradise ; 

Or through the groves gliding like morning mist 

Enkindled by the sun. He sate, and talked 

With winged Messengers, who daily brought 

To his small Island in the ethereal deep 

Tidings of joy and love. From these pure Heights 

(Whether of actual vision, sensible 

To sight and feeling, or that in this sort 

Have condescendingly been shadowed forth 

Communications spiritually maintained, 

And Intuitions moral and divine) 



Wordsworth's poems. 125 

Pell Human-kind — to banishment condemned 
That flowing years repealed not: and distress 
And grief spread wide ; but Man escaped the doom 
Of destitution ; — Solitude was not ! 

— Jehovah — shapeless Power above all Powers, 
Single and one, the omnipresent God, 

By vocal utterance, or blaze of light, 

Or cloud of darkness, localized in heaven ; 

On earth, enshrined within the wandering ark ; 

Or, out of Sion, thundering from his throne 

Between the Cherubim — on the chosen Race . 

Showered miracles, and ceased not to dispense 

Judgments, that filled the Land, from age to age, 

With hope, and love, and gratitude, and fear ; 

And with amazement smote; — thereby to assert 

His scorned or unacknowledged Sovereignty. 

And when the One, ineffable of name. 

Of nature indivisible, withdrew 

From mortal adoration or regard, 

Not then was Deity engulfed, nor Man, 

The rational Creature, left, to feel the weight 

Of his own reason, without sense or thought 

Of higher reason and a purer will, 

To benefit and bless, through mightier power ; 

— Whether the Persian — zealous to reject 
Altar and Image, and the inclusive walls 

And roofs of Temples built by human hands - 
To loftiest heights ascending, from their tops 
With myrtle-wreathed Tiara on his brow, 
Presented sacrifice to Moon and Stars, 
And to the winds and Mother Elements, 
And the whole Circle of the Heavens, for him 
A sensitive Existence, and a God, 
With lifted hands invoked, and songs of praise 
Or. less reluctantly to bonds of sense 
11* 



i'iQ Wordsworth's poems. 

Yielding his Soul, the Babylonian framed 
For influence undefined a personal Shape ; 
And, from the Plain, with toil immense, upreared 
Tower eight times planted on the top of Tower ; 
That Belus, nightly to his splendid Couch 
Descending, there might rest ; upon that Height 
Pure and serene, diffused — :o overloo.-: 
Winding Euphrates^- und the City vast 
Of his devoted Worshippers, far-stretched, 
With grove, and field, and garden, interspersed ; 
Their Town, and foodful Region for support 
Against the pressure of beleaguring v/ar. 

" Chaldean Shepherds, ranging trackless fields, 

Beneath the concave of unclouded skies 

Spread like a sea, in boundless solitude, 

Looked on the Polar Star, as on a Guide 

And Guardian of their course, that never closed 

His steadfast eye. The Planetary Five 

With a submissive reverence they beheld ; 

Watched, from the centre of their sleeping flocka 

Those radiant Mercuries, that seemed to move 

Carrying through Ether, in perpetual round, 

Decrees and resolutions of the Gods ; 

And, by their aspects, signifying works 

Of dim futurity, to man revealed. 

— The Imaginative Faculty was Lord 

Of observations natural; and, thus 

Led on, those Shepherds made report of Stars 

In set rotation passing to and fro. 

Between the orbs of our apparent sphere 

And its invisible counterpart, adorned 

With answering Constellations, under earth, 

Removed from all approach of living sight 

But present- to the Dead ; who, so they deemed. 



Wordsworth's pokms. 127 

Like those celestial Messeng-ers beheld 
All accidents, and Judges were of all. 

" The lively Grecian, in a Land of hills. 

Rivers, and fertile plains, and sounding shores, 

Under a cope of variegated sky. 

Could find commodious place for every God, 

Promptly received, as prodigally brought, 

From the surrounding Countries — at the choice 

Of all adventurers. With unrivalled skill, 

As nicest observation furnished hints 

For studious fancy, did his hand bestow 

On fluent Operations a fixed shape: 

Metal or Stone, idolatrously served. 

And yet — triumphant o'er this pompous show ■ 

Of Art, this palpable array of Sense, 

On. every side encountered; in despite 

Of the gross fictions chanted in the streets 

By wandering Rhapsodists ; and in contempt 

Of doubt and bold denial hourly urged 

Amid the wrangling Schools — a spirit hung, 

Beautiful Region ! o'er thy Towns and Farms, 

Statues and Temples, and memorial Tombs ; 

And emanations were perceived ; and acts 

Of immortality, in Nature's course. 

Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt 

As bonds, on grave Philosopher imposed 

And armed Warrior; and in every grove 

A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed, 

When piety more awful had relaxed. 

— 'Take, running River, take these Locks of mine'' 

Thus would the Votary say — 'this severed hair, 

My vow fulfilling^ do I here present, 

Thankful for my beloved Child's return. 

Thj banks, Cephisus, he again hath trod. 



128 Wordsworth's poems. 

Thy murmurs heard; and drunk the crystal lymph 
With which thou dost refresh the thirsty lip, 
And moisten all day long these flowery fields! ' 
And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair was shed 
Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose 
Of Life continuous, Being unimpaired ; 
That hath been, is, and where it was and is. 
There shall endure, — existence unexposed 
To the blind walk of mortal accident ; 
From diminution safe and weakening age ; 
While Man grows old, and dwindles, and decays ; 
And countless generations of Mankind 
Depart ; and leave no vestige where they trod. 

" We live by admiration, hope, and love ; 
And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, 
In dignity of being we ascend. 
But what is error?" — "Answer he who can!" 
The Sceptic somewhat haughtily exclaimed : 
"Love, Hope, and Admiration — are they not 
Mad Fancy's favorite Vassals ? Does not life 
Use them, full oft, as Pioneers to ruin. 
Guides to destruction? Is it well to trust 
Imagination's light when Reason's fails. 
The unguarded taper where the guarded faints ? 
— Stoop from those heights, and soberly declare 
What error is ; and, of our errors, which 
Does most debase the mind ; the genuine seats 
Of power, where are they ? Who shall regulate, 
With truth, the scale of intellectual rank ? " 

" Methinks," persuasively the Sage replied, 
"That for this arduous office you possess 
Some rare advantages. Your early days 
A grateful recollection must supply 



Wordsworth's poems. \2i* 

Of much exalted good by Heaven vouchsafed 

To dignify the humblest state. — Your voice 

Huih, in my hearing, often testified 

That poor Men's Children, they, and they alone, 

By their condition taught, can understand 

The wisdom of the prayer that daily asks 

For daily bread. A consciousness is yours 

How feelingly religion may be learned 

In smoky Cabins, from a Mother's tongue — 

Heard while the Dwelling vibrates to the din 

Of the contiguous Torrent, gathering strength 

At every moment — and, with strength, increase 

Of fury ; or, while Snow is at the door, 

Assaulting and defending, and the Wind, 

A sightless Laborer, whistles at his work — 

Fearful, but resignation tempers fear, 

And piety is sweet to infant minds. 

— The Shepherd Lad, who in the sunshine car"€». 

On the green turf, a dial — to divide 

The silent hours ; and who to that report 

Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt 

His round of pastoral duties, is not left 

With less intelligence for 7noral things 

Of gravest import. Early he perceives, 

Within himself a measure and a rule, 

Which to the Sun of Truth he can apply, 

That shines for him, and shines for all Mankind. 

Experience daily fixing his regards 

On Nature's wants, he knows how few they are, 

And where they lie, how answered and appeased 

This knowledge ample recompense affords 

For manifold privations ; he refers 

His notions to this standard; on this rock 

Rests his desires ; and hence, in after life, 

Soul-strengthening patience, and sublime content 



330 Wordsworth's poemh. 

Imagination — not permitted here 

To waste her powers, as in the worldling's niiiid, 

On fickle pleasures, and superfluous cares, 

And trivial ostentation — is left free 

And puissant to range the solemn walks 

Of time and nature, girded by a zone 

That, while it binds, invigorates and supports. 

Acknowledge, then, that whether by the side 

Of his poor hut, or on the mountain top, 

Or in the cultured field, a Man so bred 

(Take from him what you v/ill upon the score 

Of ignorance or allusion) lives and breathes 

For noble purposes of mind : his heart 

Beats to the heroic song of ancient days ; 

His eye distinguishes, his soul creates. 

And those Illusions which excite the scorn 

Or move the pity of unthinking minds. 

Are they not mainly outward Ministers 

Of inward Conscience? with whose service charg<nl 

They came and go, appeared and disappear. 

Diverting evil purposes, remorse 

Awakening, chastening an intemperate grief, 

Or pride of heart abating : and, whene'er 

For less important ends those Phantoms move, 

Who would forbid them, if their presence serve. 

Among wild mountains and unpeopled heaths. 

Filling a space, else vacant, to exalt 

The forms of Nature, and enlarge her powers ? 

'' Once more to distant Ages of the world 

fiCt us revert, and place before our thoughts 

The face which rural solitude might wear 

To the unenlightened Swains of pagan Greece. 

— In that fair Clime, the lonely Herdsman, strotchod 

On the soil grass through lialf a summer's day 



Wordsworth's poests. \'U 

With music lulled his indolent repose: 

And. in some fit of weariness if he, 

When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear 

A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds 

Which his poor skill could make, his Fancy fetched, 

Even from the blazing Chariot of the Sun, 

A beardless Youth who touched a golden lute, 

And filled the illumined groves with ravishment. 

The nightly Hunter, lifting up his eyes 

Towards the crescent Moon, with grateful heart. 

Called on the lovely wanderer who bestowed 

That timely light, to share his joyous sport: 

And hence, a beaming Goddess with her Nymphs, 

Across the lawn and through the darksome grove 

(Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes 

By echo multiplied from rock or cave) 

Swept in the storm of chase, as Moon and Stars 

Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven, 

When winds are blowing strong. The Traveller slaked 

His thirst from Rill or gushing Fount, and thanked 

The Naiad. — Sunbeams upon distant Hills 

GHding apace, with Shadows in their train. 

Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed 

Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly. 

The Zephyrs, fanning as they passed, their wings. 

Lacked not, for love, fair Objects, whom they wooed 

With gentle whisper. Withered Boughs grotosquo, 

Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age. 

From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth 

In the low vale, or on steep mountain side ; 

And, sometimes, intermixed with stirring horns 

Of the live Deer, or Goat's depending beard, — 

These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood 

Of gamesome Deities ; or Pan himself. 

The simple Shepherd's awe-inspiring God ! " 



132 Wordsworth's poems. 

As this apt strain proceeded, I 3ould mark 

Its kindly influence, o'er the yielding brow 

Of our Companion, gradually diffused ; 

While, listening, he had paced the noiseless turf, 

Like one whose untired ear a murmuring stream 

Detains ; but tempted now to interpose, 

He with a smile exclaimed - 

'Tis well you speaK 
At a safe distance from our native Land, 
And from the Mansions where our youth was taught 
The true Descendants of those godly Men 
Who swept from Scotland, in a flame of zeal, 
Shrine, Altar, Image, and the massy Piles 
That harbored them, — the Souls retaining yet 
The churlish features of that after Race 
Who fled to caves, and woods, and naked rocks, 
In deadly scorn of superstitious rites. 
Or what their scruples construed to be such — 
How, think you, would they tolerate this scheme 
Of fine propensities, that tends, if urged 
Far as it might be urged, to sov/ afresh 
The weeds of Romish Phantasy, in vain 
Uprooted ; would re-consecrate our Wells 
To good Saint Fillan and to Fair Saint Anne ; 
And from long banishment recall St. Giles, 
To watch again with tutelary love 
O'er stately Edinborough throned on crags ? 
A blessed restoration, to behold 
The Patron, on the shoulders of his Priests, 
Once more parading through her crowded streets 
Now simply guarded by the sober Powers 
Of Science, and Philosophy, and Sense!" 

This answer followed : " You have turned my thougiils 



Wordsworth's poems. 131 

Upon our brave Progenitors, who rose 

Against Idolatry witii warlike mind, 

Anil shrunk from vain observances, to lurk 

In caves, and woods, and under dismal rocka, 

Deprived of shelter, covering, fire, and food ; 

Why ? — for this very reason that they felt. 

And did acknowledge, wheresoe'er they moved, 

A Spiritual Presence, oft-times misconceived ; 

But still a high dependence, a divine 

Bounty and government, that filled 'their hearts 

With joy, and gratitude, and fear, and love; 

And from their fervent lips drew hymns of praiw ,, 

That through the desert rang. Though favored less, 

Far less, than these, yet such, in their degree 

Were those bewildered Pagans of old time, 

Beyond their own poor Natures and above 

They looked ; were humbly thankful for the g )od 

Which the warm Sun solicited — and Earth 

Bestowed ; were gladsome, — and their mora) sense 

They fortified with reverence for the Gods ; 

And they had hopes that overstepped the Gi-uve 

''Now, shall our great Discoverers," he exclaimed. 
Raising his voice triumphantly, "obtain 
From Sense and Reason less than These obtained 
Though far misled ? Shall Men for whom our Age 
Unbaflied powers of vision hath prepared, 
To explore the world without and world within. 
Be joyless as the blind ? Ambitious Souls — 
Whom Earth, at this late season, hath produced 
To regulate the moving spheres, and weigh 
The planets in the hollow of their hand ; 
And They who rather dive than soar, whose pains 
Have solved the elements, or analyzed 
The thinking principle — shall They in fact 
12 



134 



WORDSWORTH S POEMS. 



Prove a degraded Race ? and what avails 

Renown, if their presumption make them such ? 

Oh ! there is laug-hter at their work in Heaven ! 

Inquire of ancient Wisdom ; go, demand 

Of mighty Nature, if 'twas ever meant 

That we should pry far off yet be unraised ; 

That we should pore, and dwindle as we pore, 

Viewing all objects unremittingly 

[n disconnexion dead and spiritless ; 

And still dividing, and dividing still. 

Break down all grandeur, still unsatisfied 

With the perverse attempt, while littleness 

May yet become more little ; waging thus 

An impious warfare with the very life 

Of our own souls ! — And if indeed there be 

An all-pervading Spirit, upon whom 

Our dark foundations rest, could He design 

That this magnificent effect of Power, 

The EaPth we tread, the Sky that we behold 

By day, and all the pomp which night reveals, 

That these — and that superior Mystery 

Our vital Frame, so fearfully devised. 

And the dread Soul within it — should exist 

Only to be examined, pondered, searched. 

Probed, vexed, and criticised ? — Accuse me not 

Of arrogance, unknown Wanderer as I am, 

If, having walked with Nature threescore years. 

And offered, far as frailty would allow, 

My heart a daily sacrifice to Truth, 

I now affirm of Nature and of Truth, 

Whom I have served, that their Divinity 

Revolts, offended at the ways of Men 

Swayed by such motives, to such end employed; 

Philosophers, who, though the human Soul 

Be of a thousand faculties composed, 



Wordsworth's poems. l^a 

And twice ten thousand interests, do yet prize 
This Soul, and the transcedent Universe, 
No more than as a Mirror that reflects 
To proud Self-love her own intelligence ; 
That One, poor, infinite Object, in the Abyss 
Of infinite Being, twinkling restlessly ! 

" Nor higher place can be assigned to Him 

And his Compeers — the laughing Sage of Franca 

Crowned was He, if my Memors do not err, 

With laurel planted upon hoary hairs, 

[n sign of conquest by his Wit achieved. 

And benefits his wisdom had conferred, 

His tottering Body was with wreaths of flowers 

Opprest, far less becoming ornaments 

Than Spring oft twines about a mouldering Trt'o; 

Yet so it pleased a fond, a vain old Man, 

And a most frivolous People. Him I mean 

Who penned, to ridicule confiding Faith, 

This sorry Legend ; which by chance we found 

Piled in a nook, through malice, as might seom, 

Among more innocent rubbish." — Speaking thus, 

With a brief notice when, and how, and where, 

We had espied the Book, he drew it forth ; 

And courteously, as if the act removed, 

At once, all traces from the good Man's heart 

Of unbenign aversion or contempt, 

Restored it to its owner. "Gentle Friend,'' 

Herewith he grasped the Solitary's hand, 

" Yon have known better Lights and Guides than ho-j?. 

Ah ! let not aught amiss within dispose 

A noble mind to practise on herself. 

And tempt Opinion to support the wrongs 

Of Passion : whatsoe'er he felt or feared. 

From higher judgment-seats make no appeal 



136 worpsworth's poems. 

To lower: can you question that the Soul 

Inherits an allegiance, not by choice 

To be cast off, upon an oath proposed 

By each new upstart Notion ? In the porta 

Of levity no refuge can be found, 

No shelter, for a spirit in distress. 

He, who by wilful disesteem of life, 

And proud insensibility to hope, 

Affronts the eye of Solitude, shall learn, 

That her mild nature can be terrible ; 

That neither she nor Silence lack the power 

To avenge their own insulted Majesty. 

— O blest seclusion! when the Mind admits 

The law of duty ; and can therefore move 

Through each vicissitude of loss and gain. 

Linked in entire complacence with her choice ; 

When Youth's presumptuousness is mellowed down, 

And Manhood's vain anxiety dismissed ; 

When Wisdom shows her seasonable fruit. 

Upon the boughs of sheltering Leisure hung 

In sober plenty ; when the spirit stoops 

To drink with gratitude the crystal stream 

Of unreproved enjoyment; and is pleased 

To muse, — and be saluted by the air 

Of meek repentance, wafting wall-flower scents 

From out the crumbling ruins of fallen Pride 

And chambers of Transgression, now forlorn. 

O, calm contented days, and peaceful nights ! 

Who, when such good can be obtained, would strivis 

To reconcile his Manhood to a couch 

Soft, as may seem, but, under that disguise. 

Stuffed with the thorny substance of the past, 

For fixed annoyance ; and full oft beset 

Wi^'-. floating dreams, disconsolate and black, 

The vapory phantoms of futurity ? 



Wordsworth's poems. 137 

"Within the soul a Faculty abides 

That with interpositions, which would hide 

And darken, -so can deal, that they become 

Contingencies of pomp ; and serve to exalt 

Her native brightness. As the ample Moon, 

In the deep stillness of a summer Even, 

Rising behind a thick and lofty grove. 

Burns like an unconsuming fire of light, 

In the green trees ; and, kindling on all sides 

Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil 

Into a substance glorious as her own, 

Yea, with her own incorporated, by power, 

Capacious and serene ; like power abides 

In Man's celestial Spirit ; Virtue thus 

Sets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds 

A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire, 

From the encumbrances of mortal life, 

From error, disappointment, — nay, from guilt 

And sometimes, so relenting Justice wills. 

From palpable oppressions of despair." 

The Solitary by these words was touched 
With manifest emotion, and exclaimed, 
" But how begin ? and whence ? — the Mind is fiee 
Resolve — the haughty Moralist would say. 
This single act is all that we demand 
Alas ! such Avisdom bids a Creature fly 
Whose very sorrow is, that time hath shorn 
His natural wings! — To Friendship let him tun> 
For succor; but perhaps he sits alone 
On stormy waters, in a little Boat 
That holds but him, and can contain no more ! 
Religion tells of amity sublime 
Which no condition can preclude ; of One 
Who sees ail suffering, comprehends all wants. 
12* 



138 Wordsworth's poems. 

All weakness fathoms, can supply all needs ; 

But is that bounty absolute? — His gifts, 

Are they not still, in some degree, rewards 

For acts of service ? Can his Love extend 

To hearts that own not Him ? Will showers of grace. 

When in the sky no promise may be seen, 

Fall to refresh a parched and withered land ? 

Or shall the groaning Spirit cast her load 

At the Redeemer's feet ? " 

In rueful tone, 
With some impatience in his mien, he spake ; 
Back to my mind rushed all that had been urged 
To calm the Sufferer when his story closed ; 
I looked for counsel as unbending now ; 
But a discriminating sympathy 
Stooped to his apt reply, — 

" As Men from Men 
Do, in the constitution of their Souls, 
Differ, by mystery not to be explained; 
And as we fall by various ways, and sink 
One deeper than another, self-condemned, 
Through manifold degrees of guilt and shame, 
So manifold and various are the ways 
Of restoration, fashioned to the steps 
Of all infirmity, and tending all 
To the same point, — attainable by all ; 
Peace in ourselves, and union with our God. 
For you, assuredly, a hopeful road 
Lies open: we have heard from You a voice, 
At every moment softened in its course 
By tenderness of heart; have seen your Eye, 
Even like an Altar lit by fire from Heaven, 
Kindle before us, — Your discourse tliis day. 



Wordsworth's pokms. 13i) 

That, like the fabled Lethe, wished to dow 

In creeping sadness, through oblivious sliadea 

Of death and night, has caught at every turn 

Tiie colors of the Sun. Access for you 

Is yet preserved to principles of truth, 

Which the Iniaginative Will upholds 

in seats of i^isdom, not to be approached 

By the inferior faculty that moulds, 

With her minute and speculative pains. 

Opinion, ever changing ! — I have seen 

A curious Child, who dwelt upon a tract 

Of inland ground, applying to his ear 

The convolutions of her smooth-lipped Shell ; 

To which, in silence hushed, his very soul 

Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon 

Brightened with joy ; for murmurings from within 

Were heard, — sonorous cadences! whereby 

To his belief, the Monitor expressed 

Mysterious union with his native Sea. 

Even such a Shell the Universe itself 

Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times, 

I doubt not, when to you it doth impart 

Authentic tidings of invisible things ; 

Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power; 

And central peace subsisting at the heart 

Of endless agitation. Here you stand. 

Adore and worship, when you know it no'<: ; 

Pious beyond the intention of your thought ; 

Devout above the meaning of your will. 

— Yes, you have felt, and may not cease to feel. 

The estate of Man would be indeed forlorn. 

If false conclusions of the reasoning Power 

Made the eye blind, and closed the passages 

Through which the Ear converses with the heart 

Has not the Soul, the Being of your Life, 



140 Wordsworth's poems. 

Received a shock of awful consciousness, 

In some calm season, when these lofty Rocks 

At nig-ht's approach bring down the unclouded Sky^ 

To rest upon their circumambient walls; 

A Temple framing of dimensions vas-t. 

And yet not too enormous for the sound 

Of human anthems, — choral song, or burst 

Sublime of instrumental harmony, 

To glorify the Eternal! What if these 

Did never break the stillness that prevails 

Here, if the solemn Nightingale be mute. 

And the soft Woodlark here did never chant 

Her vespers, Nature fails not to provide 

Impulse and utterance. The whispering Air 

Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights, 

And blind recesses of the caverned rocks; 

The little Rills, and Waters numberless, 

Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes 

With the loud streams : and often, at the hour 

When issue forth the first pale Stars, is heard, 

Within the circuit of this Fabric huge, 

One Voice — the solitary Raven, flying 

Athwart the concave of the dark-blue dome, 

Unaeen, perchance, above all power of sight — 

An iron knell ! with echoes from afar 

Faint — and still fainter — as the cry, with which 

The wanderer accompanies her flight 

Through the calm region, fades upon the ear. 

Diminishing by distance till it seemed 

To expire, yet from the Abyss is caught again, 

And yet again recovered ! 

" But descending 
From these Imaginative Heights, that yield 
Far-stretching views into Eternity 



Wordsworth's poems. 141 

Acknowledge that to Nature's humble power 

Your cherished sullenness is forced to bend 

Even here, where her amenities are sown 

With sparing hand. Then trust yourself abroad 

To range her blooming bowers, and spacious fielJij 

Where on the labors of the nappy Throng 

She smiles, including in her wide embrace 

City, and Town, and Tower, — and Sea with Shipg 

Sprinkled ; — be our Companion, while we track 

Her rivers populous with gliding life ; 

While, free as air, o'er printless sands we march, 

Or pierce the gloom of her majestic woods ; 

Roaming, or resting under grateful shade 

In peace and meditative cheerfulness; 

Where living Things, and Things inanimate. 

Do speak, at Heaven's command, to eye and ear, 

And speak to social Reason's inner sense, 

With inarticulate language. 

"For the Man, 
Who, in this spirit, communes with the Forms 
Of Nature, who with understanding heart 
Doth know and love such Objects as excite 
No morbid passions, no disquietude. 
No vengeance, and no hatred, needs must fee 
The joy of that pure principle of Love 
So deeply, that, unsatisfied with aught 
„ess pure and exquisite, he cannot choose 
But seek for objects of a kindred love 
In Fellow-natures and a kindred joy. 
Accordingly he by degrees perceives 
His feelings of aversion softened down ; 
A holy tenderness pervade his frame. 
His sanity of reason not impaired, 
Say rather, all his thoughts now flowing clear, 



L42 



WORDSWORTH S POKMf 



From a clear Fountain flowing, he looks round 

And seeks for good ; and finds the good he seeks 

Until abhorrence and contempt are things 

He only knows by name ; and, if he hear, 

From other mouths, the language which they speak, 

He is compassionate ; and has no thought, 

No feeling, which can overcome his love. 

" And further ; by contemplating these Forms 

In the relations which they bear to Man, 

He shall discern, how, through the various means, 

Which silently they yield, are multiplied 

The spiritual Presences of absent Things. 

Trust me, that for the Instructed, time will come 

When they shall meet no object but may teach 

Some acceptable lesson to their minds 

Of human suffering, or of human joy. 

So shall they learn, while all things speak of Man 

Their duties from all forms ; and general laws, 

And local accidents, shall tend alike 

To rouse, to urge ; and, with the will, confer 

The ability to spread the blessing wide 

Of true philanthropy. The light of love 

Not failing, perseverance from their steps 

Departing not, for them shall be confirmed 

The glorious habit by which Sense is made 

Subservient still to moral purposes, 

Auxiliar to divine. That change shall clothe 

The naked Spirit, ceasing to deplore 

The burthen of existence. Science then 

Shall be a precious Visitant : and then, 

And only tnen, be worthy of her name. 

For then her Heart shall kindle ; her dull Eye, 

Dull and inanimate, no more shall -ang 

Chained to its object in brute slavery ; 



Wordsworth's poems. IVi 

But tarjght with patient interest to watch 

The processes of things, and serve the cause 

Of order and distinctness, not for this 

Shall it forget that its most noble use. 

Its most illustrious province, must be found 

In furnishing clear guidance, a support 

Not treacherous to the Mind's excursive Power. 

— So build we up the Being that we are ; 

Thus deeply drinking-in the Soul of Things, 

We shall be wise perforce ; and while inspired 

By choice, and conscious that the Will is free, 

Unswerving shall we move, as if impelled 

By strict necessity, along the path 

Of order and of good. Whate'er we see, 

Whate'er we feel, by agency direct 

Or indirect, shall tend to feed and nurse 

Our faculties, shall fix in calmer seats 

Of moral strength, and raise to loftier heights 

Of love divine, our intellectual soul." 

Here closed the Sage that eloquent harangue. 

Poured forth with fervor in continuous stream ; 

Such as, remote, 'mid savage wilderness. 

An Indian Chief discharges from his breast 

Into the hearing of assembled Tribes, 

In open circle seated round, and hushed 

As the unbreathing air, Avhen not a leaf 

vStirs in the mighty woods. — So did he speak: 

The words he uttered shall not pass away ; 

For they sank into me — the bounteous gifl 

Of One whom time and nature had made wise, 

Gracing his language with authority 

Which hostile spirits silently allow ; 

Of One accustomed to desires that feed 

On fruitage gathered from the Tree of Life ; 



144 Wordsworth's poems. 

To hopes on knowledge and experience built; 
Of one in whom persuasion and belief 
Had ripened into faith, and faith become 
A passionate intuition ; whence the Soul, 
Though bound to Earth by ties of pity and love, 
From all injurious servitude was free. 

The Sun, before his place of rest were reached, 

Had yet to travel far, but unto us, 

To us who stood low in that hollow Dell, 

He had become invisible, — a pomp 

Leaving behind of yellow radiance spread 

Upon the mountain sides, in contrast bold 

With ample shadows, seemingly, no less 

Than those resplendent lights, his rich bequest, 

A dispensation of his evening power. 

— Adown the path that from the Glen had led 

The funeral Train, the Shepherd and his Mate 

Were seen descending; — forth to greet them ran 

Our little Page ; the rustic Pair approach ; 

And in the Matron's aspect may be read 

A plain assurance that the words which told 

How that neglected Pensioner was sent 

Before his time into a quiet grave, 

Had done to her humanity no wrong : 

But we are kindly welcomed — promptly served 

With ostentatious zeal. — Along the floor 

Of the small Cottage, in the lonely Dell, 

A grateful Couch was spread for our repose; 

Where, in the guise of Mountaineers, we slept, 

Stretched upon fragrant heath, and lulled by sound 

Of far-off torrents charming the still night, 

And to tired limbs and over-busy thoughts 

Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness. 



THE EXCURSION. 



BOOK THE FIFTH. 

THE PASTOR. 

AEGITMENT. 

Farewell lo the Valley — Reflections — Sight of a large and populous 
Vale — Solitary consents to go forward — Vale described — The 
Pastor's dwelling, and some account of him — The Churchyard — 
Church and Monuments — The Solitary musing, and whera — 
Roused — In the Churchyard the Solitary communicates the thoughts 
which had recently passed through his mind — Lofiy tone of the 
Wanderer's discourse of yesterday adverted to — Rite of Baptism, 
aaid the profession accompanying it. contrasted with the real stale of 
human life — Inconsistency of the best men — Acknowledgment tli.a 
practice falls far below the injuntions of duty as existing in the mind — 
General complaint of a falliug-off in the value of life after the time of 
youth — Outward appearances of content and happiness in degree 
illusive — Pastor approaches — Appeal made to him — His answer — 
Wanderer in sympathy with him — Suggestion that the least ambi- 
tious Inquirers may be most free from error — The Pastor is desired 
to give some Portraits of the living or dead from his own observationj 
of lite among iliese Mountains — and for v.'hat purf>ose — Pastor 
consents — Mouiiiain Cottage — Excellent qualities of Its Inhabitants 
— Solitary expresses his pleasure ; bni denies the praise of virtue to 
worth of this kind — Feelings of the Priest before he enters upon hia 
account of Persons mterred in the Churchyard — Grave? of ii .'jai)iized 
Infants — What sensations they excite — Funerai ti-.d sepulchral 
Observances, whence — Ecclesiastical Establisiiniir'«, whence de- 
rived — Profession of Belief in the doctrine of Immortality. 
18 



140 Wordsworth's poems. 

Farewell, deep Valley, with thy one rude House, 

And its small lot of life-supporting- fields, • 

And guardian rocks! — Farewell, attractive Seat 

To the still influx of the morning light 

Open, and day's pure cheerfulness, but veiled 

From human observation, as if yet 

Primeval Forests wrapped tfiee round with dark 

Impenetrable shade ; once more farewell, 

Majestic Circuit, beautiful Abyss, 

By Nature destined from the birth of things 

For quietness profound ! 

Upon the side 
Of that brown Slope, the outlet of the Vale, 
Lingering behind my Comrades, thus I breathed, 
A parting tribute to a spot that seemed 
Like the fixed centre of a troubled World. 
And now, pursuing leisurely my way. 
How vain, thought I, it is by change of place 
To seek that comfort which the mind denies ; 
Yet trial and temptation oft are shunned 
Wisely ; and by such tenure do we hold 
Frail Life's possessions, that even they whose fate 
Yields no peculiar reason of complaint 
Might, by the promise that is here, be won 
To steal from active duties, and embrace 
Obscurity, and calm forgetfulness. 
---Knowledge, methinks, in these disordered times 
Should be allowed a privilege to have 
Jier Anchorites, like Piety of old; 
Men, who, from faction sacred, and unstained 
V>y war, might, if so minded, turn aside 
Uncensured, and subsist, a scattered few 
Living to God and Nature, and conten*. 
With that communion. Consecrated be 



Wordsworth's rotMs. 147 

The Spots where such abide ! But happier still 

The Man, whom, furthermore, a hope attends 

That meditation and research may guide 

His privacy to principles and powers 

Discovered or invented ; or set forth, 

Through his acquaintance with the ways of trutli. 

In lucid order ; so that, when his course 

Is run, some faithful Eulogist may say, 

He sought not praise, and praise did overlook 

His unobtrusive merit; but his life, 

Sweet to himself, was exercised in good 

That shall survive his name and memory. 

Acknowledgments of gratitude sincere 
Accompanied these musings ; — fervent thanks 
For my own peaceful lot and happy choice ; 
A choice that from the passions of the world 
Withdrew, and fixed me in a still retreat, 
Sheltered, but not to social duties lost, 
Secluded, but not buried ; and Avith song 
Cheering my days, and with industrious thought, 
With ever-welcome company of books, 
By virtuous freiendship's soul-sustaining aid. 
And with the blessings of domestic love. 

Thus occupied in mind I paced along. 

Following the rugged road, by sledge or wheel 

Worn in the moorland, till I overtook 

My two Associates, in the morning sunshine 

Halting together on a rocky knoll. 

From which the road descended rapidly 

To the green mealows of another Vale. 

Here did our pensive Host put forth his hand 
In sign o*" %rewell. " Nay," the Old Man said. 



148 ^v ()R1>SWORTH's POEMS. 

" The fragrant Air its coolness still retuins ; 

The Herds and Flocks are yet abroad to crop 

The dewy grass ; you cannot leave us now, 

We must not part at this inviting hour." 

He yielded, though reluctant ; for his Mind 

Instinctively disposed him to retire 

To his own Covert; as a billow, heaved 

Upon the beach, rolls ba^.k into the Sea. 

— So we descend; and winding round a rock 

Attain a point that showed the Valley — stretciied 

In length before us ; and, not distant fur, 

Upon a rising ground a gray Church-tower, 

Whose battlements were screened by tufted trees. 

And, towards a crystal Mere, that lay beyond. 

Among steep hills and woods embosomed, flowed 

A copious Stream with boldly-winding course ; 

Here traceable, there hidden — there again 

To sight restored, and glittering in the Sun. 

On the Stream's bank, and every where, appeared 

Fair Dwellings, single, or in social knots ; 

Some scattered o'er the level, others perched 

On the hill sides, a cheerful quiet scene, 

Now in its morning purity arrayed. 

" As, 'mid some happy Valley of the Alps," 

Said I, "once happy, ere tyrannic Power, 

Wantonly breaking in upon the Swiss, 

Dtjstroyed their unoffending Commonwealth, 

A popular equality reigns here. 

Save for one House of State beneath whose roof 

A rural Lord might dwell." — "No feudal pomp," 

Rey)lied our Friend, a Chronicler who stood 

Wiiere'er he moved upon fluniliar ground, 

" Nor feudal power is there ; but there abides. 

In his allotted Home, a genuine Priest, 



Wordsworth's poems. 14I» 

The Shepherd of his Flock or, as a King 

Is styled, when most affect/ onately praised. 

The Father of his People. Such is he ; 

And rich and poor, and yoang and old, rejoice 

Under his spiritual sway. He hath vouchsafed 

To me some portion of a kind regard ; 

And something also of his inner mind 

Hath he imparted — but I speak of him 

As he is known to all. The calm delights 

Of unambitious piety he chose. 

And learning's solid dignity ; though born 

Of knightly race, nor wanting powerful friends. 

Hither, in prime of manhood, he withdrew 

From academic bowers. He loved the spot, - 

Who does not love his native soil? he prized 

The ancient rural character, composed 

Of simple manners, feelings unsuppressed 

And undisguised, and strong and serious thought: 

A character reflected in himself, 

With such embellishment as well beseems 

His rank and sacred function. This deep vale 

Winds far in reaches hidden from our eyes, 

And one, a turreted manorial Hall 

Adorns, in which the good's Man's Ancestors 

Have dwelt through ages — Patrons of this Cure. 

To them, and to his own judicious pains, 

The Vicar's Dwelling, and the whole Domnin, 

Owes that presiding aspect which might well 

Attract your notice ; statelier than could else 

Have been bestowed, through course of comuion chance 

On an unwealthy mountain Benefice." 

This said, oft halting we pursued our way ; 

Nor reached the Village Churchyard till the sun. 

Travelling a* steadier pace than ours, had risen 



150 Wordsworth's poems. 

Above the summit of the highest hills, 

And round our path darted oppressive beams. 

As chanced, the Portals of the Sajcred Pile 

Stood open, and we entered. On m}'' frame, 

At such transition from the fervid air, 

A grateful coolness fell, that seemed to strike 

The heart, in concert with that temperate awe 

And natural reverence, which the Place inspired. 

Not raised in nice proportions was the Pile, 

But large and massy ; for duration built ; 

With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld 

By naked rafters intricately crossed, 

Like leafless underboughs, 'mid some thick grove^ 

All withered by the depth of shade above. 

Admonitory Texts inscribed the walls. 

Each, in its ornamental scroll, enclosed, 

Each also crowned with winged heads — a pair 

Of rudely-painted Cherubim. The floor 

Of naive and aisle, in unpretending guise, 

Was occupied by oaken benches, ranged 

In seemly rows ; the chancel only showed 

Some inoffensive marks of earthly state 

And vain distinction. A capacious pew 

Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery liuou 

And marble Monuments were here displayed 

Thronging the walls; and on the floor beneath 

Sepulchral stones appeared, with emblems graven, 

And foot-worn epitaphs, and some with small 

And shining effigies of brass inlaid. 

— The tribute by these various records claimed. 

Without reluctance did we pay; and read 

The ordinary chronicle of bnth. 

Office, alliance, and promotion — all 

Ending in dust of upright Magistrates. 



Wordsworth's poems. l;*jj 

Grave Doctors, strenuous for the Mother Church, 

And uncorrupted Senators, alike 

To King- and People true. A brazen plate, 

Not easily deciphered, told of One 

Whose course of earthly honor was begun 

In quality of page among the Train 

Of the eighth Henry, when he crossed the seas 

His royal state to show, and prove his strength 

In tournament upon the Fields of France. 

Another Tablet registered the death, 

And praised the gallant bearing, of i Knight 

Tried in the sea-fights of the second Charles. 

Near this brave Knight his Father lay entombed , 

And, to the silent language giving voice, 

I read, — how, in his manhood's earlier day, 

He, 'mid the afflictions of intestine War 

And rightful Government subverted, found 

One only solace — that he had espoused 

A virtuous Lady tenderly beloved 

For her benign perfections ; and yet more 

Endeared to him, for this, that in her state 

Of wedlock richly crowned with Heaven's regard, 

She with a numerous Issue filled his House, 

Who throve, like Plants, uninjured by the Storm 

That laid their Country waste. No need to speak 

Of less particular notices assigned 

To youth or Maiden gone before their time. 

And Matrons, and unwedded Sisters old : 

Whose charity and goodness were rehearsed 

In modest panegyric. " These dim lines. 

What would they tell.^" said I, — but, from the taf:k 

Of puzzling out that faded Narrative, 

With whisper soft my venerable Friend 

Called me ; and, looking down the darksome aisle, 

I saw the Tenant of the lonely Vale 



i52 Wordsworth's poems. 

Standing apart; with curved arm reclined 

On the baptismal Font ; his pallid face 

Upturned, as if his mind were wrapt, or lost 

In some abstraction; — gracefully he stood, 

The semblance bearing of a sculptured Form 

That leans upon a monumental Urn 

In peace, from morn to night, from year to year. 

Him from that posture did the Sexton rouse ; 

Who entered, humming carelessly a tune. 

Continuation haply of the notes 

That had beguiled the work from which he came, 

With spade and mattock o'er his shoulder hung, 

To be deposited for future need, 

In their appointed place. The pale Recluse 

Withdrew ; and straight we followed — , to a spot 

Where sun and shade were intermixed ; for there 

A broad Oak, stretching forth its leafy arms 

From an adjoining pasture, overhung 

Small space of that green churchyard with a ligh^ 

And pleasant awning. On the moss-grown wall 

My ancient Friend and I together took 

Our seats ; and thus the Solitary spake. 

Standing before us. " Did you note the mien 

Of that self-solaced, easy-hearted Churl, 

Death's Hireling, who scoops out his Neighbor's gravfi, 

Or wraps an old Acquaintance up in clay, 

As unconcerned as when he plants a tree ? 

I was abruptly summoned by his voice 

From some ali'ecting images and thoughts, 

And from the company of serious wordt'. 

Much, yesterday, was said in glowing phrase 

Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes 

For future states of Being; and tVe winga 

Of speculation, joyfully outspread. 



Wordsworth's poems. \~hi 

Hovered abovR our destiny on earth : — 

But stoop and place the prospect of the soul 

In sober contrast with reality, 

And Man's substantial life. If this mute earth . 

Of what it holds could speak, and every grave 

Were as a volume, shut, yet capable 

Of yielding- its contents to eye and ear, 

We should recoil, stricken with sorrow and shame 

To see disclosed, by such dread proof, how ill 

That which is done accords witn what is known 

To reason and by conscience is enjoined ; 

How idly, how perversely, Life's whole course, 

To this conclusion, deviates from the line, 

Or of the end stops short, proposed to all 

At her aspiring outset. Mark the Babe 

Not long accustomed to this breathing world ; 

One that hath barely learned to shape a smile; 

Though yet irrational of Soul to grasp 

With tiny fingers — to let fall a tear ; 

And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, 

To stretch liis limbs, bemocking, as might seoi:;, 

The outward functions of intelligent Man ; 

A grave Proficient in amusive feats 

(^f puppetry, that from the lap declare 

His expectations, and announce his claims 

To that inheritance Avhich millions rue 

That they were ever born to ! In due time 

A day of solemn ceremonial comes ; 

When thev, who for his Minor hold in trust 

Rights that transcend the humblest heritage 

Of mere Humanity, present their Charge, 

For this occasion daintly adorned. 

At the baptismal Font. And when the pure 

And consecrating element hath cleansed 

The original stain, the Child 's there received 



154 Wordsworth's poems. 

Into the second Ark, Christ's Church, with trust 

That he, from wrath redeemed, therein shall float 

Over the billows of this troublesome world 

To the fair land of everlasting Life. 

Corrupt affections, covetous desires. 

Are all renounced ; high as the tiiought of man 

Can carry virtue, virtue is professed ; 

A dedication made, a promise given 

For due provision to control and guide. 

And unremitting progress to ensure 

In holiness and truth," 

•• Yod cannot blame," 
Here interposing fervently I said, 
" Rites which attest that Man by nature lies 
Bedded for good and evil in a gulf 
Fearfully low ; nor will your judgment scorn 
Those services, whereby attempt is made 
To lift the Creature toward that eminence 
On which, now fallen, erewhile in majesty 
He stood ; or if not so, whose top serene 
At least he feels 'tis given him to descry ; 
Not without aspirations, evermore 
Returning, and injunctions from within 
Doubt to cast off and weariness ; in trust 
That what the soul perceives, if glory lost, 
May be, through pains and persevering hope, 
Recovered ; or, if hitherto unknown, 
Lies within reach, and one day shall be gained." 

"1 blame them not," he calmly answered — "no; 
The outward ritual ana established forms 
With which communities of Men invest 
These inward feelings, and the aspiring vow^j 
To which the lips give public utterance, 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. I ,K 

Are both a n:itural process ; and by me 

Shall pass uncensured ; though the issue prove, 

Bring-ing from age to age its own reproach, 

Incongruous, impotent, and blank, — but, oli ! 

If to be weak is to be wretched — miserable, 

As the lost Angel by a human voice 

Math mournfully pronounced, then, in my mind, 

Far better not to move at all than move 

By the impulse sent from such illusive Power, 

That finds and cannot fasten down ; that grasps ; 

And is rejoiced, and loses while it grasps; 

That tempts, euiboldens — doth a while sustain, 

And then betrays ; accuses and inflicts 

Remorseless punishment ; and so retreads 

The inevitable circle : better far 

Than this, to graze the herb in thoughtless peace. 

By foresight, or remembrance, undisturbed ! 

" Philosophy ! and thou more vaunted name, 

Religion ! with thy statelier retinue, 

Faith, Hope, and Charity — from the visible world 

Choose for your Emblems whatsoe'er ye find 

Of safest guidance and of firmest trust, — 

The Torch, the Star, the Anchor ; nor except 

The Cross itself, at whose unconscious feet 

The Generations of Mankind have knelt 

Ruefully seized, and shedding bitter tears, 

And through that conflict seeking rest — of you, 

High-titled Powers, am I constrained to ask, 

Here standing, with the unvoyageable sky 

In faint reflection of infinitude 

Stretched overliead, and at my pensive feet 

A subterraneous magazine of bones. 

In whose dark vaults my own shall soon be laid, 

Where are your triumphs ? your dominion where ' 



(56 Wordsworth's poems 

And in what age admitted and confirmed ? 

— Not for a happy Land do I enquire, 
Tsland or Grove, that hides a blessed few, 
Who, with obedience willing- and sincere, 
To your serene authorities conform ; 

But wliom, I ask, of individual Souls, 

Have ye withdrawn from Passion's crooked ways, 

Inspired, and thoroughly fortified? — If the Heart 

Could be inspected to its inmost folds 

By sight undazzled with the glare of praise. 

Who shall be named — in the resplendent line 

Of Sages, Martyrs, Confessors — the Man 

Whom the best might of Conscience, Truth, and Hope 

For one day's little compass, has preserved 

From painful and discreditable shocks 

Of contradiction, from some vague desire 

Culpably cherished, or corrupt relapse 

To some unsanctioned fear ? " 

" If this be so. 
And Man," said I, " be in his noblest sliape 
Thus pitiably infirm: then, He who nade. 
And who shall judge, the Creature, will forgive. 

— Yet, in its general tenor, your complaint 
Is all too true ; and surely not misplaced : 

For, from this pregnant spot of ground, such thongli^i 

Rise to the notice of a serious Mind 

By natural exhalation. With the Dead 

[n their repose, the Living in their mirth, 

Who can reflect, unmoved, upon the round 

Of smooth and solemnized complacencies. 

By which, on Christian Lands, from age to age 

Profession mocks Performance. Earth is sick. 

And Heaven is weary, of the hollow v/ords 

Which States and Kingdoms utter when they talk 

Of truth and justice. Tinn to private life 



Wordsworth's poems. 157 

And social neighborhood ; look we to ourselves ; 

A light of duty shines on every day 

For all ; and yet how few are warmed or cheered ! 

EIow few who mingle with their fellow-men 

And still remain self-governed, and apart, 

Like this our honored Friend ; and thence acquire 

Right to expect his vigorous decline, 

That promises to the end a blest old age ! " 

" Yet," with a smile of triumph thus exclaimed 

The Solitary, " in the life of Man, 

If to the poetry of common speech 

Faith may be given, we see as in a glass 

A true reflection of the circling year, 

VVitli all its seasons. Grant that Spring is there, 

In spite of many a rough untoward blast. 

Hopeful and promising with buds and flowers ; 

Yet where is glowing Summer's long rich day. 

That ought to follow faithfully expressed ? 

And mellow Autumn, charged with bounteous fruit, 

Where is she imaged .'* in what favored clime 

Her lavish pomp, and ripe magnificence ? 

— Yet, while the better part is missed, the worse 

In Man's autumnal season is set forth 

With a resemblance not to be denied, 

And that contents him ; bowej-s that hear no more 

The voice of gladness, less and less supply 

Of outward sunshine in internal warmtii ; 

And, with this change, sharp air and falling louves, 

Foretelling total Winter, blank and cold. 

" How gay the Habitations that bedeck 
This fertile Valley ! Not a House but seems 
To give assurance of content within ; 
Embosomed happiness, and placid love 
14 



158 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

As if the sunshine of the day were met 

With answering brightness in the hearts of all 

Who walk this favored ground. But chance-regards 

And notice forced upon incurious ears ; 

These, if these only, acting in despite 

Of the encomiums by Friend pronounced 

On humble life, forbid the judging mind 

To trust the smiling aspect of this fair 

And noiseless Commonwealth. The simple race 

Of Mountaineers (by Nature's self removed 

From foul temptations, and by constant care 

Of a good Shepherd tended as themselves 

Do tend their flocks) partake Man's general lot 

With little mitigation. They escape, 

Perchance, guilt's heavier woes ; and do not feci 

The tedium of fantastic idleness ; 

Yet life, as with a multitude, with them. 

Is fashioned like an ill-constructed tale ; 

That on the outset wastes its gay desires. 

Its fair adventures, its enlivening hopes, 

And pleasant interests — for the sequel leavmg 

Old things repeated with diminished grace ; 

And all the labored novelties at best 

Imperfect substitutes, whose use and power 

Evince the want and weakness whence they spring.' 

While in this serious mood we held discourse. 
The reverend Pastor toward the Church-yard gate 
Approached ; and, with a mild respectful air 
Of native cordiality, our Friend 
Advanced to greet him. With a gracious mien 
Was he received, and mutual joy prevailed. 
Awhile they stood in conference, and I guess 
That He, who now upon the mossy wall 
Sate by my side, had vanished, if a wish 



WOKDS WOKTll's l^OKMS. 159 

Could have transferred him to his lonely House 

Within the circuit of those guardian rocks. 

— For me, I looked upon the pair, well pleased: 

Nature had framed them both, and both were marked 

]]y circumstance, with intermixture fine 

Of contrast and resemblance. To an Oak 

Hardy and grand, a weather-beaten Oak, 

Fresh in the strength and majesty of age, 

One might be likened : flourishing appeared, 

Though somewhat past the fulness of his prime, 

The Other — like a stately Sycamore, 

That spreads, in gentler pomp, its honeyed shade. 



A general greeting was exchanged ; and soon 

The Pastor learned that his approach had given 

A welcome interruption to discourse 

Grave, and in truth too often sad. — "Is Man 

A Child of hope ? Do generations press 

On generations, without progress made ? 

Halts the Individual, ere his hairs be gray, 

Perforce ? Are we a creature in whom good 

Preponderates, or evil ? Doth the Will 

Acknowledge Reason's law ? A living Power 

Is Virtue, or no better than a name, 

Fleeting as health or beauty, and unsound ? 

So that the only substance which remains, 

\For thus the tenor of complaint hath run,) 

Among so many shadows, are the pains 

And penalties of miserable life. 

Doomed to decay, and then expire in dust ! 

— Our cogitations this way have been drawn, 

These are the points," the Wanderer said, " on which 

Our inquest turns. — Accord, good Sir! the light 

Of your experience to dispel this gloom : 



160 Wordsworth's poems. 

By your persuasive wisdom shall the Heart 
That frets, or languishes, be stilled and cheered." 

"Oar Nature," said the Priest, in mild reply, 

" Angels may weigh and fathom : they perceive, 

With undistempered and unclouded spirit. 

The object as it is; but, for ourselves, 

That speculative height we may not reach. 

The good and evil are our own ; and we 

Are that which we would contemplate from far. 

Knowledge, for us, is difficult to gain — 

Is difficult to gain, and hard to keep — 

As Virtue's self; like Virtue is beset 

With snares ; tried, tempted, subject to decay. 

Love, admiration, fear, desire, and hate, 

Blind were we without these : through these alone 

Are capable to notice, or discern. 

Or to record; we judge, but cannot be 

Indifferent judges. Spite of proudest boast. 

Reason, best Reason, is to imperfect Man 

An effort only, and a noble aim ; 

A crown, an attribute of sovereign power. 

Still to be courted — never to be Avon ! 

— Look forth, or each man dive into himself; 

What sees he but a Creature too perturbed, 

That is transported to excess; that yearns. 

Regrets, or trembles, wrongly, or too much; 

Hopes rashly, in disgust as rash recoils ; 

Battens on spleen, or moulders in despair? 

Thus truth is missed, and comprehension fails* 

And darkness and delusion round our path 

Spread, from disease, whose subtle injury lurka 

Within the very faculty of sight. 

*Yet for the general purposes of faith 



WORDSAVORTH S POEMS. 16] 

in Providence, for solace and support, 
We may not doubt that who can best subject 
The will to Reason's law, and strictliest live 
And act in that obedience, he shall gain 
The clearest apprehension of those truths. 
Which unassisted Reason's utmost power 
Is too infirm to reach. But — waiving this, 
And our regards confining within bounds 
Of less exalted consciousness — through which 
The very multitude are free to range — 
We safely may afiirm that human life 
Is either fair and tempting, a soft scene 
Grateful to sight, refreshing to the soul, 
Or a forbidding tract of cheerless view ; 
Even as the same is looked at, or approached. 
Thus, when in changeful April snow has fallen, 
And fields are white, if from the sullen north 
Vour walk conduct you hither, ere the Sun 
Hath gained his noontide height, this church-yard, filled 
With mounds transversely lying side by side 
From east to west, before you will appear 
An unillumined, blank, and dreary plain, 
With more than wintery cheerlessness and gloom 
Saddening the heart. Go forward, and look back ; 
Look, from the quarter whence the lord of light, 
Of life, of love, and gladness doth dispense 
His beams ; which, unexcluded in their fall, 
Upon the southern side of every grave 
Have gently exercised a melting power, 
Then will a vernal prospect greet your eye. 
All fresh and beautiful, and green and bright, 
Hopeful and cheerful : — vanished is the snow, 
Vanished or hidden; and the whole Domain, 
To some too lightly minded might appear 
A meadow carpet for the dancing hours 
14* 



162 WOKDSWOKTK'a raKMs. 

— This conira&t, not unsuitable to Life, 

Is to that other state more opposite, 

Death and its two-fold aspect ; wintry — one, 

Cold sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut out' 

The other, which the ray divine hath touched, 

Replete with vivid promise, bright as spring." 

" We see, then, as we feel," the Wanderer thus 

With a complacent animation spake, 

" And in your judgment. Sir ! the Mind's repose 

On evidence is not to be ensured 

By act of naked Reason. Moral truth 

Is no mechanic structure, built by rule ; 

And which, once built, retains a steadfast" shape 

And undisturbed proportions ; but a thing 

Subject, you deem, to vital accidents ; 

And, like the water-lily, lives and tlirives, 

Whose root is fixed in stable earth, whose head 

Floats on the tossing waves. With joy sincere 

I re-salute these sentiments, confirmed 

By your authority. But how acquire 

The inward principle that gives effect 

To outward argument; the passive will 

Meek to admit ; the active energy, 

Strong and unbounded to embrace, and firm 

To keep and cherish ? how shall Man unite 

With self-forgetting tenderness of heart 

An earth-despising dignity of soul ? 

Wise in that union, and without it blind ! " 

"The way," said I, "to court, if not obtain 
The ingenuous Mind, apt to be set aright; 
This, in the lonely Dell discoursing, you 
Declared at large ; and by what exercise 
From visible nature or the inner self 



Wordsworth's pokms. Hi3 

Power may be trained, and renovation broupfht 
To those who need the gift. But, after aU, 
Is aught so certain as that man is doomed 
To breathe beneath a vault of ignorance ? 
The natural roof of that dark house in which 
His soul is pent ! How little can be known — 
This is the wise man's sigh ; how ftir Ave err — 
This is the good man's not unfrequent pang ! 
And they perhaps err least, the lowly Class 
Whom a benign necessity compels 
To follow Reason's least ambitious course ; 
Such do I mean, who, unperplexed by doubt, 
And unincited by a wish to look 
Into high objects farther than they may, 
Pace to and fro, from morn till even-tide, 
The narrow avenue of daily toil 
For daily bread." 

" Yes." ouoyantly exclaimed 
The pale Recluse — " praise to the sturdy plough. 
And patient spade, and shepherd's simple crook, 
And ponderous loom — resounding while it holds 
Body and mind in one captivity ; 
And let the light mechanic tool be hailed 
With honor; which, encasing by the power 
Of long companionship, the Artist's hand, 
Cuts off that hand, with all its world of nerves, 
From a too busy commerce with the heart ! 
— Inglorious implements of craft and toil, 
Itoth ye that shape and build, and ye that force, 
By slow solicitation, Earth to yield 
Her annual bounty, sparingly dealt forth 
With wise reluctance, you would I extol, 
Not for gross good alone which ye produce. 
But for the impertinent and ceaseless strife 
Of proofs and reasons ye preclude — in those 



164 Wordsworth's poems. 

Who to your dull society are born, 

And with their humble birthright rest content. 

— Would I had ne'er renounced it ! " 

A slight flush 
Of moral anger previously had tinged 
The Old Man's cheek ; but, at this closing turn 
Of self-reproach, it passed away. Said he, 
" That which we feel we utter ; as we think 
So have we argued ; reaping for our pains 
No visible recompense. For our relief 
You," to the Pastor turning thus he spake, 
" Have kindly interposed. May I entreat 
Your further' help ? The mine of real life 
Dig for us ; and present us, in the shape 
Of virgin ore, that gold which we, by pains 
Fruitless as those of aery Alchemists, 
Seek from the torturing crucible. There lies 
Around us a domain where You have long 
Watched both the outward course and inner heart i 
Give us, for our abstractions, solid facts ; 
For our disputes, plain pictures. Say what Man 
He is who cultivates yon hanging field ; 
What qualities of mind She bears, who comes, 
For morn and evening service, with her pail. 
To that green pasture ; place before our sight 
The Family who dwell Avithin yon House 
Fenced round with glittering laurel ; or in that 
Below, from which the curling smoke ascends. 
Or rather, as we stand on holy earth, 
And have the Dead around us, take from them 
Your instances ; for they are both best known, 
And by frail man most equitably judged. 
Epitomise the life ; pronounce. You can. 
Authentic epitaphs on some of these 



Wordsworth's poems I(»A 

Who, from their lowly mansions hither brought, 
Beneath this turf lie mouldering at our feet. 
So, by your records, may our doubts be solved ; 
And so, not searching higher, we may learn 
T^ prize the breath we share with hmimn kind; 
And look upon tJi£ dust of man with awt.^"* 

The Priest replied. — "An office you impose 

For which peculiar requisites are mine ; 

Yet much, I feel, is wanting — else the task 

Would be most grateful. True, indeed it is 

That They whom Death has hidden from our sight 

Are worthiest of the Mind's regard ; with these 

The future cannot contradict the past : 

Mortality's last exercise and proof 

Is undergone ; the transit made that shows 

The very soul, revealed as she departs. 

Yet, on your first suggestion, will I give, 

Ere we descend into these silent vaults, 

One Picture from the living. — 

"You behold. 
High on the breast of yon dark mountain — dark 
With stony barrenness, a shining speck, 
Bright as a sunbeam sleeping, till a shower 
Brush it away, or cloud pass over it ; 
And such it might be deemed — a sleeping sunbeam 
But 'tis a plot of cultivated ground. 
Cut off, an island in the dusky waste; 
And that attractive brightness is its own. 
The lofty Site, by nature framed to temj>t 
Amid a wilderness of rocks and stones 
The Tiller's hand, a Hermit might have cyiosen. 
For opportunity presented, thence 
Far forth to send his wandering eye o'er larjd 



166 Wordsworth's poems. 

And ocean, and look down upon the works, 
And habitations, and the ways of men, 
Himself unseen ! But no tradition tells 
That ever Hermit dipped his maple dish 
In the sweet spring that lurks 'mid yon green fjolds 
And no such visionary views belong- 
To those who occupy and till the ground, 
And on the bosom of the mountain dwell 

— A wedded Pair in childless solitude. 

— A House of stones collected on the spot, 

By rude hands built, with rocky knolls in front, 

Backed also by a ledge of rock, whose crest 

Of birch-trees waves above the chimney top; 

A rough abode — in color, shape, and size, 

Such as in unsafe times of Border war 

Might have been wished for and contrived, to elude 

The eye of roving Plunderer — for their need 

Suffices ; and unshaken bears the assault 

Of their most dreaded foe, the strong South-west, 

In anger blowing from the distant sea. 

— Alone within her solitary Hut ; 

There, or within the compass of her tields. 
At any moment may the Dame be found. 
True as the Stock-dove to her shallow nest 
And to the grove that holds it. She beguiles 
By intermingled work of house and field 
The summer's day, and vidnter's ; with success 
Not equal, but sufficient to maintain, 
Even at the worst, a smooth stream of content, 
Until the expected hour at which her Mate 
From the far-distant Quarry's vault returns ; 
And by his converse crowns a silent day 
With evening cheerfulness. In powers of \ninJ, 
In scale of culture, few an.ong my Flock 
Hold lower ranks than this sequestered Pan ; 



Wordsworth's im>kms. Ii>7 

But humbleness of heart descends from Heaven ; 
And that best gift of Heaven hath fallen on then ; 
Abundant recompense for every want. 
— Stoop from your height, ye proud, and copy these 
Who, in their noiseless dwelling-place, can hear 
The voice of wisdom whispering Scripture texts 
For the mind's government, or temper's peace ; 
And recommending, for their mutual need, 
Forgiveness, patience, hope, and charity ! " 

"Much was I pleased," the gray-haired Wanderer t; ud, 

" When to those shining fields our notice first 

You turned; and yet more pleased have from your li/Jt 

Gathered this fair report of them who dwell 

In that retirement; whither, by such course 

Of evil hap and good as oft awaits 

A lone wayfaring Man, I once was brought. 

Dark on my road the autunmal evening fell 

While I was traversing yon mountain-pass, 

And night succedeed with unusual gloom 

So that my feet and hands at length became 

Guides better than mine eyes — until a light 

High in the gloom appeared, too high, methought, 

For human habitation ; but I longed 

To reach it, destitute of other hope. 

I looked with steadiness, as Sailors look 

On the north star, or watch-tower's distant lamp. 

And saw the light — now fixed — and shifting now -- 

Not like a dancing meteor, but in line 

Of never-varying motion, to and fro. 

It is no night-fire of the naked hills, 

Thought I, some friendly covert must be near. 

With this persuasion thitherward my steps 

I turn, and reach at last, the guiding Light ; 

Joy to mvself ! but to the heart of Her 



168 Wordsworth's poems. 

Who thero was standing- on tho open hill, 

(The same kind Matron whom your tongue hath praised) 

Alarm and disappointment ! The alarm 

Ceased, when she learned through what mishap I came, 

And by what help had gained those distant fields. 

Drawn from her Cottage, on that open height. 

Bearing a lantern in her hand she stood. 

Or paced the ground — to guide her Husband honie, 

By that unwearied signal, kenned afar ; 

An anxious duty ! which the lofty Site, 

Traversed but by a few irregular paths, 

Imposes, whensoe'er untoward chance 

Detains him after his accustomed hour, 

Till night lies black upon the ground. ' But come, 

Come,' said the Matron, ' to our poor Abode ; 

Those dark rocks hide it!' Entering, I beheld 

A blazing fire — beside a cleanly hearth 

Sate down; and to her office, with leave cisked, 

The Dame returned. — Or ere that glowing pile 

Of mountain turf required the Builder's hand 

Its wasted splendor to repair, the door 

Opened, and she re-entered with glad looks. 

Her helpmate following. Hospitable fare, 

Frank conversation, made the evening's treat : 

Need a bewildered Traveller wish for more ? 

But more was given ; I studied, as we sate 

By the bright fire, the good Man's face — composed 

Of features elegant ; an open brow 

Of undisturbed humanity; a cheek 

Suffused with something of a feminine hue : 

Eyes beaming courtesy and mild regard ; 

But in the quicker turns of the discourse, 

Expression slowly varying, that evinced 

A tardy apprehension. Prom a fount 

Lost; thouyht I, in tho cb.stMirities of time 



Wordsworth's pokms. Id'J 

But honored once, these features and that mien 
May have descended, though I see them here. 
In such a Man, so g-entlo and subdued, 
Withal so graceful in his gentleness, 
A race illustrious for heroic deeds. 
Humbled, but not degraded, may expire. 
This pleasing fancy (cherished and upheld 
By sundry recollections of such fall 
From high to low, ascent from low to high, 
As books record, and even the careless mind 
Cannot but notice among men and things) 
Went with me to the place of my repose. 

"Roused by the crowing cock at dawn of day, 

I yet had risen too late to interchange 

A morning salutation with my Host, 

Gone forth already to the far-off seat 

Of his day's work. ' Three dark mid-winter months 

Pass,' said the Matron, 'and I never see. 

Save when the Sabbath brings its kind release. 

My helpmate's face by light of day. He quits 

His door in darkness, nor till dusk returns. 

And, through Heaven's blessing, thus we g;!in the? 

bread 
For which we pray ; and for the wants provide 
Of sickness, accident, and helpless age. 
('ompanions have I many; many Friends, 
Dependants, Comforters — my Wheel, my Fire, 
All day the House-clock ticking in mine ear, 
The cackling Hen, the tender Chicken brood. 
And the wild Birds that gather round my porch. 
This honest Sheep-dog's countenance I read ; 
With him can talk ; nor blush to waste a word 
On Creatures less intelligent and shrewd. 
And if the blustering Wind that drives the clouds 
15 



170 Wordsworth's poems. 

Care not for me, he lingers round my door, 

And makes me pastime when our tempers suit; 

— But, above all, my Thoughts are my support" 

The Matron ended — nor could I forbear 

To exclaim — 'O happy! yielding- to the law 

Of these privations, richer in the main ! 

While thankless thousands are opprest and clogged 

By ease and leisure — by the very wealth 

And pride of opportunity made poor; 

While tens of thousands falter in their path, 

And sink, through utter want of cheering light; 

For you the hours of labor do not flag; 

For you each Evening hath its shining Star, 

And every Sabbath-day its golden Sun.' " 

" Yes ! " said the Solitary with a smile 

That seemed to break from an expanding heart, 

" The untutored Bird may found, and so construct, 

And with such soft materials line her nest. 

Fixed in the centre of a prickly brake. 

That the thorns wound her not ; they only guard. 

Powers, not unjustly linked to those gifts, 

Of happy instinct which the woodland Bird 

Shares with her species. Nature's grace sometimes 

Upon the Individual doth confer, 

Among her higher creatures born and trained 

To use of reason. And, I own, that tired 

Of the ostentatious world — a swelling stage 

With empty actions and vain passions stuffed, 

And from the private struggles of mankind 

Hoping for less than I could wish to hope, 

Far less than once I trusted and believed — 

.1 love to hear of Those, who, not contending 

Nor summoned to contend for Virtue's prize, 

Miss not th,'=' humbler good at which they ."i'u: 



Wordsworth's poems. I7i 

Blest with a kindly facultj to blunt 

The edge of adverse circumstance, and turn 

Into their contraries the petty plagues 

And hindrances with which they stand beset 

— In early youth, among my native hills, 
1 knew a Scottish Peasant who possessed 

A iew small Crofts of stone-encumbered ground • 

M;isses of every shape, and size, that lay 

Scattered about under the mouldering walls 

Of a rough precipice ; and some, apart, 

In quarters unobnoxious to such chance, 

As if the Moon had showered them down in spite 

But he repined not. Though the plougli was scared 

By these obstructions, ' round the shady stones 

A fertilising moisture,' said the Swain, 

'Gathers, and is preserved; and feeling dews 

And damps, through all the droughty Summer day, 

From out their substance issuing, maintain 

Herbage that never fails ; no grass springs up 

So green, so fresh, so plentiful, as mine ! ' 

But thinly sown these Natures ; rare, at least, 

The mutual aptitude of seed and soil 

That yields such kindly product. He — whose bod 

Perhaps yon loose sods cover, the poor Pensioner 

Brought yesterday from our sequestered dell 

Here to lie down in lasting quiet — he. 

If living now, could otherwise report 

Of rustic loneliness : that gray-haired Orphan — 

So call him, for humanity to him 

No parent was — feelingly could have told, 

In life, in death, what Solitude can breed 

Of selfishness, and cruelty, and vice ; 

Or, if it breed not, hath not power to cure. 

— But your compliance. Sir! with our request 
My words too long have hindered." 



172 Wordsworth's poein/ .. 

Undeterred, 
Perhaps incited rather, by these shocks, 
In no ungracious opposition, given 
To the confiding spirit of his own 
Experienced faith, the reverend Pastor said, 
Around him looking, " Where shall I begin ^ 
Who shall be first selected from my Flock 
Gathered together in their peaceful fold?" 
He paused — and having lifted up his eyes 
To the pure Heaven, he cast them down again 
Upon the earth beneath his feet ; and spake 
— "To a mysteriously-consorted Pair 
This place is consecrate ; to Death and Life, 
And to the best Affections that proceed 
From their conjunction;- — consecrate to faith 
In Him who bled for man upon the Cross; 
Hallowed to Revelation ; and no less 
To Reason's mandates ; and the hopes divine 
Of pure Imagination; — above all, 
To Charity, and Love, that have provided, 
Within these prechicts, a capacious bed 
And receptacle, open to the good 
And evil, to the just and the unjust; 
In which they find an equal resting-place : 
Even as the multitude of kindred brooks 
And streams, whose murmur fills this hollow vale, 
Whether their course be turbulent or smooth, 
Their waters clear or sullied, all are lost 
Within the bosom of yon crystal Lake, 
And end their journey in the same repose ! 

" And blest are they who sleep ; and we that know 
While in a spot like this we breathe and walk, 
That All beneath us by the wings are covered 
Of motherly Humanity, outspread 



Wordsworth's poems. 173 

And ^'dthering all within their tender shade, 
Though loth and slow to come ! A battle-field, 
In stillness left when slaughter is no more, 
With tliis compared, is a strange spectacle — 
A rueful sight the wild shore strewn with wrecks, 
And trod by people in afflicted quest 
Of friends and kindred, whom the angry Sea 
Restores not to their prayer! Ah! who would thiak 
That all the scattered subjects which compose 
Earth's melancholy vision through the space 
Of all her climes; these wretched, these depraved. 
To virtue lost, insensible of peace, ^ 

From the delights of charity cut off, 
To pity dead, the Oppressor and the Opprest ; 
Tyrants who utter the destroying word. 
And slaves who will consent to be destroyed — 
Were of one species with the sheltered few. 
Who, with a dutiful and tender hand. 
Did lodge, in an appropriate spot, 
This file of Infants ; some that never breathed 
The vital air ; and others, who, allowed 
That privilege, did yet expire too soon. 
Or with too brief a warning, to admit 
Administration of the holy rite 
That lovingly consigns the Babe to the arms 
Of Jesus, and his everlasting care. 
These that in trembling hope are laid apart ; 
And the besprinkled Nursling, unrequired 
Till he begins to smile upon the breast 
Tliat feeds him; and the tottering Little-one 
Taken from air and sunshine when the rose 
Of Infancy first blooms upon his cheek ; 
The thinking, thoughtless School-boy; the bold Voath 
Of soul impetuous, and the bashful Maid 
Smitten while all the promises of life 
15* 



J74 WORDSWORTH S FOEMS 

Are opening round her ; those of middle age. 

Cast down while confident in strength they stand, 

Like pillars fixed more firmly, as might seem. 

And more sjcure, by very weight of all 

That, for support, rests on them ; the decayed 

And burthensome ; and lastly, that poor few 

Whose light of reason is with age extinct ; 

The hopeful and the hopeless, first and last, 

The earliest summoned and the longest spared — 

Are here deposited, with tribute paid 

Various, but unto each some tribute paid ; 

As if, amid these peaceful hills and groves, 

Society were touched with kind concern ; 

And gentle "Nature grieved, that One shoii!*! die:" 

Or, if the change demanded no regret, 

Observed the liberating stroke — and blessed. 

— And whence that tribute ? wherefore these regards 

Not from the naked Heart alone of Man, 

(Though claiming high distinction upon earth 

As the sole spring and fountain-head of tears, 

His own peculiar utterance for distress 

Or gladness.) No," the philosophic Priest 

Continued, "'tis not in the vital seat 

Of feeling to produce them, without aid 

From the pure Soul, the Soul sublime and pure ; 

With her two faculties of Eye and Ear, 

The one by which a Creature, whom his sins 

Have rendered prone, can upward look to Heave;) , 

The other that empowers him to perceive 

The voice of Deity, on height and plain. 

Whispering those truths in stillness, which the Wdru.i) 

To the four quarters of the winds, proclamis. 

Not without such assistance could the use 

Of these benign observances prevail. 

Thus are they born, thus fostered, and maintained ; 



\roRi)s worth's poems. 175 

And by the care prospective of our wise 
Forefathers, who, to guard against the shocks, 
The fluctuation and decay of things, 
Embodied and established these high Truths 
In solemn Institutions : — Men convinced 
That Life is Love and Immortality, 
The Being one, and one the Element. 
There lies the channel, and original bed, 
From the beginning, hollowed out and scooped 
For Man's Affections — else betrayed and lost, 
And swallowed up 'mid deserts infinite ! 
— This is the genuine course, the aim, and end 
Of prescient Reason ; all conclusions else 
Are abject, vain, presumptuous, and perverse. 
The faith partaking of those holy times, 
Life, I repeat, is energy of Love 
Divine or human ; exercised in pain. 
In strife, and tribulation ; and ordained, 
If so approved and sanctified, to pass. 
Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy." 



THE EXCURSION. 



BOOK THE SIXTH. 

THE PASTOR. 

ARGUMENT. 

Poet's Address to the State and Church of England — The Pastor no< 
inferior to the ancient Worthies of the Church — He begins his 
Narratives with an Instance of unrequited Love — Anguish- of Mind 
subdued — and how — The lonely Miner, an instance of Persever- 
ance, which leads by contrast to an Example of abused talenis, 
irresolution, and weakness — Solitary, applying this covertly to his 
own case, asks for an Instance of some Stranger, whose disposition 
may have led him to end his days here — Pastor, in answer, gives an 
account of the harmonising influence of Solitude upon two Men of 
opposite principles, who had encountered agitations in public life — 
— The Rule by which Peace may be obtained expressed — and 
where Solitary hints at an overpowering Fatality — Answer of the 
Paslo: — What subjects he will exclude from his Narratives — 
Conversation upon this — Instance of an unaraiable character, a Fe- 
male, — and why given — Contrasted with this, a meek Sufferer from 
unguarded and betrayed love — Instance of heavier guilt, and its con- 
sequences to tiie Offender — With this Instance of a Marriage Con- 
tract broken is contrasted one of a Widower, evidencing his fatihful 
affection towards his deceased wife by his care of their female Children. 

Ha.il to the Crown by Freedom shaped — to gird 
An English Sovereign's brow ! and to the Throne 
Whereon he sits ! Whose deep Foundations lie 
Jq veneration and the People's love ; 



!78 Wordsworth's poems. 

Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law. 

— Hail to the State of England ! And conjoin 
With this a salutation as devout, 

Made to the spiritual Fabric of her Church : 
Founded in truth; by blood of Martyrdom 
Cemented; by the hands of Wisdom reared 
In beauty of Holiness, with ordered pomp, 
Decent, and unreproved. The voice, that greets 
The majesty of both, shall pray for both ; 
That, mutually protected and sustained. 
They may endure, long as the sea surrounds 
This favored Land, or sunshine warms her soil. 

— And O, ye swelling hills and spacious plains ! 
Besprent from shore to shore with steeple-tower^i 
And spires whose " silent finger points to Heaven 
Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk 

Of ancient Minster, lifted above the cloud 
Of the dense air, which town or city breeds 
To intercept the sun's glad beams — may ne'er 
That true succession fail of English Hearts, 
Who, with Ancestral feeling can perceive 
What in those holy Structures ye possess 
Of ornamental interest, and the charm 
Of pious sentiment diffused afar, 
And human charity, and social love. 

— Thus never shall the indignities of Time 
Approach their reverend graces, unopposed ; 
Nor shall the Elements be free to hurt 
Their fair proportions ; nor the blinder rage 
Of bigot zeal madly to overturn ; 

And, if the desolating hand of war 
Spare them, they shall continue to bestow — 
Upon the thronged abodes of busy Men 
(Depraved, and ever prone to fill their minds 
Exclusively with transitory things) 



Wordsworth's poems. 179 

•% 
An air and mien of dignified pursuit ; 

Of sweet civility — on rustic wilds. 

— The poet, fostering for his native land 
Such hope, entreats that Servants may abound 
Of those pure Altars worthy ; Ministers 
Detached from pleasure, to the love of gain 
Superior, insusceptible of pride. 

And by ambitious longings undisturbed ; 
Men, whose delight is where their duty leads 
Or fixes them ; whose least distinguished day 
Shines with some portion of that heavenly lustra 
Which makes the Sabbath lovely in the sight 
Of blessed angels, pitying human cares. 

— And, as on earth it is the doom of Truth 
To be perpetually attacked by foes 

Open or covert, be that Priesthood still, 

For her defence, replenished Avith a Band 

Of strenuous Champions, in scholastic arts 

Thoroughly disciplined ; nor (if in course 

Of the revolving' World's disturbances 

Cause should recur, which righteous Heaven avert 

To meet such trial) from their spiritual Sires 

Degenerate ; who, constrained to wield the SAvoru 

Of disputation, shrunk not, though assailed 

With hostile din, and combating in sight 

Of angry umpires, partial and unjust ; 

And did, thereafter, bathe their hands in fire, 

So to declare the conscience satisfied • 

Nor for their bodies would accept release ; 

But blessing God and praising him, bequeathed. 

With their last breath, from out the smouldering liamo 

The faith which they by diligence had earned. 

Or, throtigh illuminating grace, received. 

For their dear Countrymen, and all mankind. 

O high example, constancy divine ! 



180 Wordsworth's poems. 

Even such a man (inheriting the zeal 
And from the Sanctity of elder times 
Not deviating — a Priest, the like of whom, 
If multiplied, and in their stations set. 
Would o'er the bosom of a joyful Land 
Spread true Religion, and her genuine fruits) 
Before me stood that day ; on holy ground 
Fraught with the relics of mortality, 
Exalting tender themes, by just degrees 
To lofty raised ; and to the highest, last ; 
The head and mighty paramount of truths ; 
Immortal life, in never-fading worlds, 
For mortal Creatures, conquered and secured. 

That basis laid, those principles of faith 
Announced, as a preparatory act 
Of reverence to the spirit of the place ; 
The Pastor cast his eyes upon the ground, 
Not, as before, like one oppressed with awe. 
But with a mild and social cheerfulness ; 
Then to the Solitary turned, and spake. 

" At morn or eve, in your retired Domain, 
Perchance you not unfrequently have marked 
Al Visitor — in quest of herbs and flowers ; 
Too delicate employ, as would appear. 
For One, who, though of drooping mien, had ye! 
From Nature's kindliness received a frame 
Robust as ever rural labor bred." 

The Solitary answered : " Such a Form 
Full well I recollect. We often crossed 
Each other's path ; but, as the Intruder seemed 
Fondly to prize the silence which he kept, 
Anti I as willingly did cherish mine. 



Wordsworth's poems. I8> 

We met, and passed, like shadows. 1 nave heard, 
From my orood Host, that he was crazed in brain 
By unrequited love : and scaled the rocks, 
Dived into caves, and pierced the matted woods 
In hope to find some virtuous herb of power 
To cure his malady ! " 

The Vicar smiled, 
" Alas . before to-morrow's sun goes down 
His habitation will be here : for him 
That open grave is destined." 

" Died he then 
Of pain and grief?" the Solitary asked, 
"Believe it not — oh! never could that be!" 

" He loved," the Vicar answered, " deeply loved. 
Loved fondly, truly, fervently ; and dared 
At length to tell his love, but sued in vain ; 
— Rejected — yea repelled — and, if with scorn 
Upon the haughty maiden's brow, 'tis but 
A high-prized plume which female beauty wears 
In wantonness of conquest, or puts on 
To cheat the world, or from herself to hide 
Humiliation, when no longer free. 
That he could brook, and glory in ; — but when 
The tidings came that she whom he had wooed 
Was wedded to another, and his heart 
Was forced to rend away its only hope. 
Then, Pity could have scarcely found on earth 
An Object worthier of regard than he, 
In transition of that bitter hour ! 
Lost was she, lost ; nor could the Sufferer say 
That in the act of preference he had been 
Unjustly dealt with; but the Maid was gone! 
1(5 



182 Wordsworth's poems. 

Had vanished from his prospects and desires ; 
Not by translation to the heavenly Choir 
Who had put off their mortal spoils — ah no! 
She lives another's wishes to (.omplete, — 
'Joy be their lot, and happiness,' he cried, 
His lot and hers, as misery is mine ! ' 

" Such was that strong- concussion ; but the Man 

Who trembled, trunk and limbs, like some huge Oiik 

By a fierce tempest shaken, soon resumed 

The steadfast quiet natural to a Mind 

Of composition gentle and- sedate. 

And in its movements circumspect and slow. 

To books, and to the long-forsaken desk, 

O'er which, enchained by science, he had loved 

To bend, he stoutly re-addressed himself, 

Resolved to quell his pain, and search for truth 

With keener appetite (if that mig-ht be) 

And closer industry. Of what ensued 

Within the heart no outward sign appeared, 

Till a betraying sickliness was seen 

To tinge his cheek ; and through his frame it crcpi 

With slow mutation unconcealable ; 

Such universal change as autumn makes 

In the fair body of a leafy grove 

Discolored, then divested. 'Tis affirmed 

By Poets, skilled in Nature's secret ways. 

That Love will not submit to be controlled 

By mastery : — and the good Man lacked not Friends 

Who strove to instil this truth into his mind, — 

A mind in all heart-mysteries unversed 

'Go to the hills,' said one, 'remit a while 

This baneful diligence : — at early morn 

Court the fresh air, explore the heaths and woods ; 

And, leaving it to others to foretell, 



Wordsworth's poems. 183 

By calculations sage, the ebb and flow 

Of tides, and when the moon will be eclipsed, 

Do you, for your own benefit, construct 

A calendar of flowers, plucked as they blow 

Where health abides, and cheerfulness, and peace.' 

The attempt was made; — 'tis needless to report 

How hopelessly : — but Innocence is strong. 

And an entire simplicity of mind, 

A thing more sacred in the eye of Heaven, 

That opens, for such SuflTerers, relief 

Within their souls, a fount of grace divine ; 

And doth commend their weakness and disease 

To Nature's care, assisted in her office 

By all the Elements that round her wait 

To generate, to preserve, and to restore ; 

And by het beautiful array of Forms 

Shedding sweet influence from above, or pure 

Delight exhaling from the ground they tread. ' 

" Impute it not to impatience, if," exclaimed 
The Wanderer," I infer that he was healed 
By perseverance in the course prescribed '' 

' You do not err: the powers, that had been lost 
By slow degrees, were gradually regained ; 
The fluttering nerves composed; the beating heart 
In rest established ; and the jarring thoughts 
To harmony restored. — But yon dark mould 
Will cover him, in the fulness of his strength — 
Hastily smitten, by a fever's force ; 
Vet not with stroke so sudden as refused 
Time to look back with tenderness on her 
Whom he had loved in passion, — and to send 
Some farewell words, — with one, but one, request, 
That, from his dying hand, she would accept . 



184 Wordsworth's poems. 

Of his possessions that which most he prized : 
A Book, upon whose leaves some chosen plants 
By his own hand disposed with nicest care, 
In undecaying beauty were preserved ; 
Mute register, to him, of time and place, 
And various fluctuations in the breast; 
To her, a monument of faithful Love 
Conquered, and in tranquillity retained ! 

"Close to his destined habitation, lies 

One who achieved a humbler victory, 

Though marvellous in its kind. A Place there is 

High in these mountains, that allured a Band 

Of keen Adventurers to unite their pains 

In search of precious ore: who tried, were foiled — 

And all desisted, all, save him alone. 

Me, taking counsel of his own clear thoughts, 

And trusting only to his own weak hands, 

Urged unremittingly the stubborn work, 

Unseconded, uncountenanced ; then, as time 

Passed on, while still his lonely efibrts found 

No recompense, derided; and at length. 

By many pitied, as insane of mind; 

By others dreaded as the luckless Thrall 

Of subterranean Spirits feeding hope 

By various mockery of sight and sound; 

Hope after hope, encouraged and destroyed. 

— But when the Lord of seasons had matured 

The fruits of earth through space of twice ten yen 

The mountain's entrails offered to his view 

And trembling grasp the long-deferred reward. 

Not with more transport did Columbus greet 

A world, his rich discovery ! But our Swain. 

A very Hero till his point was gained. 

Proved all unable to support the weight 



woRDSwt rth's poems. IQf 

Of prosperous fortune. On the fields he looked 

With an unsettled liberty of thought, 

Of schemes and wishes ; in the daylight walked 

Giddy and restless ; ever and anon 

Quaffed in his gratitude immoderate cups ; 

And truly might be said to dip of joy ! 

He vanished ; but conspicuous to this day 

The Path remains that linked his Cottage-door 

To the Mine's mouth ; a long, and slanting track 

Upon the rugged mountain's stony side, 

Worn by his daily visits to and from 

The darksome centre of a constant hope. 

Phis Vestige, neither force of beating rain, 

Nor the vicissitudes of frost and thaw, 

Shall cause to fade, till ages pass away ; 

And it is named, in memory of the event, 

The Path of Perseverance." 

"Thou from whom 
Man has his strength," exclaimed the Wanderer, " oh . 
Do thou direct it ! — to the Virtuous grant 
The penetrative eye which can perceive 
In this blind world the guiding vein of hope. 
That, like this Laborer, such may dig their way, 
' Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified ; ' 
Grant to the Wise his firmness of resolve ! " 

" That prayer were not superfluous,' said the Prinat, 

" Amid the noblest relics, proudest dust. 

That Westminster, for Britain's glory, holds 

Withm the bosom of her awful Pile, 

Ambitiously collected. Yet the sign. 

Which wafts that prayer to Heaven, is due to all, 

Wherever laid, who living fell below 

Their virtue's humbler mark ; a sigh of pain 



180 Wordsworth's poems. 

If to the opposite extreme tiiey sank. 

How would you pity Her who yonder rests ; 

Him, farther off; the Pair, who here are laid ; 

But, above all, that mixture of Earth's Mould 

Whom sight of this green Hillock to my mind 

Recalls ! — He lived not till his locks were nipped 

By seasonable frost of age ; nor died 

Before his temples, prematurely forced 

To mix the manly brown with silver gray, 

Gave obvious instance of the sad effect 

Produced, when thoughtless Folly hath usurped 

The natural crown that sage experience wears. 

— Gay, volatile, ingenious, quick to learn, 

And prompt to exhibit all that he possessed 

Or could perform; a zealous actor — hired 

Into the troop of mirth, a soldier — sworn 

Into the lists of giddy enterprise — 

Such was he ; yet, as if within his frame 

Two several Souls alternately had lodged. 

Two sets of manners could the Youth, put on; 

And, fraught with antics as the Indian bird 

That writhes and cliatters in her wiry cage ; 

Was graceful, when it pleased him, smooth and still 

As the mute Swan that floats adown the stream, 

Or, on the waters of the unruffled lake. 

Anchors her placid beauty. Not a Leaf 

That flutters on the bough, more light than He ; 

And not a flower, that droops in the green shade, 

More willingly reserved ! If ye inquire 

How such consummate elegance was bred 

Amid these wilds, this answer may suffice, — 

'Twas Nature's will ; who sometimes undertakes, 

For the reproof of human vanity, 

Art to outstrip in her peculiar walk. 

Hence, for this Favorite, lavishly endowed 



Wordsworth's poems. 187 

With personal g'ifts, and bright instinctive wit, 

While both, embellishing each other, stood 

Yet farther recommended by the charm 

Of fine demeanor, and by dance and song-. 

And skill in letters, every fancy shaped 

Fair Expectations ; nor, when to the World's 

Capacious field fortli went the Adventurer, tliere 

Were he and his attainments overlooked. 

Or scantily rewarded; but all hopes, 

Cherished for him, he suifered to depart, 

Like blighted buds ; or clouds that mimicked Land 

Before the Sailor's eye ; or diamond drops 

That sparkling- decked the morning grass ; or aught 

That was attractive — and hath ceased to be ! 

— Yet, when this Prodigal returned, the rites 

Of joyful greeting were on hira bestowed. 

Who, by humiliation undeterred. 

Sought for his weariness a place of rest 

Within his Father's gates. — Whence came He ? 

clothed 
In tattered garb, from hovels where abides 
Necessity, the stationary Host 
Of vagrant Poverty ; from rifted barns 
Where no one dwells but the wide-staring Owl 
And the Owl's Prey; from these bare Haunts, to which 
He had descended from the proud Saloon, 
He came, the Ghost of beauty and of health, 
The Wreck of gaiety ! But soon revived 
In strength, in power refitted, he renewed 
His suit to Fortune ; and she smiled again 
Upon a fickle Ingrate. Thrice he rose. 
Thrice sank as willingly. For He, whose nerves 
Were used to thrill with pleasure, while his voice 
Softly accompanied the tuneful harp. 
By the nice finger of fair Ladies, touched 



188 Wordsworth's poems. 

In glittering- Halls, was able to derive 

No less enjoyment from an abject choice. 

Who happier for the moment — who more blithe 

Than this fallen Spirit I in those dreary Holds 

His Talents lending to exalt the freaks 

Of merry-making Beggars, — now, provoked 

To laughter multiplied in louder peals 

By his malicious wit ; then, all enchained 

With mute astonishment, themselves to see 

In their own arts outdone, their fame eclipsed. 

As by the very presence of the Fiend 

Who dictates and inspires illusive feats. 

For knavish purposes ! The City, too, 

(With shame I speak it) to her guilty bowers 

Allured him, sunk so low in self-respect 

As there to linger, there to eat his bread. 

Hired Minstrel of voluptuous blandishment ; 

Charming the air with skill of hand or voice. 

Listen he would, be wrought upon who might, 

Sincerely wretched Hearts, or falsely gay. 

— Such the too frequent tenor of his boast 

In ears that relished the report ; — but all 

Was from his Parents happily concealed ; 

Who saw enough for blame and pitying love. 

They also were permitted to receive 

His last, repentant breath ; and closed his eyes, 

No more to open on that irksome world 

Where he had long existed in the state 

Of a young Fowl beneath one Mother hatched, 

Though from another sprung — of different kind ; 

Where he had lived and could not cease to live, 

Distracted- in propensity; content 

With neitlier element of good or ill : 

And yet in both rejoicing; man unblest ; 

Of contradictions infinite the slave, 



Wordsworth's poems. 189 

Till h.s deliverance, when Mercy made him 

One with Himself, and one with them who sleep." 

'"Tjs strange," observed the Solitary, "strange 

It seems, and scarcely less than pitiful, 

That in a Land where Charity provides 

For all that can no longer feed themselves, 

A man like this should choose to bring his shame 

To the parental door ; and with his sighs 

Infect the air which he had freely breathed 

In happy infancy He could not pine, 

Through lack of converse, — no, he must have found 

Abundant exercise for thought and speech, 

In his dividual Being, self-reviewed. 

Self-catechised, self-punished. — Some there are 

Who, drawing near their final Home, and much 

And daily longing that the same were reached, 

Would rather shun than seek the fellowship 

Of kindred mould. — Such haply here are laid ! " 

*' Yes," said the Priest, " the Genius of our Hills, 

Who seems by these stupendous barriers cast 

Round his Domain, desirous not alone 

To keep his own, but also to exclude 

All other progeny, doth sometimes lure, 

Even by this studied depth of privacy, 

The unhappy Alien hoping to obtain 

Concealment, or seduced by wish to find, • 

In place from outward molestation free. 

Helps to internal ease. Of many such 

Could I discourse ; but as their stay was briet 

So their departure only left behind 

Fancies and loose conjectures. Other trace 

Survives, for worthy mention, of a Pair 

Who, from the pressure of their several fateb, 



190 



WORDSWORTH S POKMS. 



Meeting as Strangers, in a petty Town 

Whose blue roofs ornament a distant reach 

Of this far-winding Vale, remained as Friends 

True to their clioice ; and gave their bones in trust 

To this loved Cemetery, here to lodge, 

With unescutcheoned privacy interred 

Far from the Family-vault. A Chieftain One 

By right of birth ; within whose spotless breist 

The fire of ancient Caledonia burned. 

He, with the foremost whose impatience hailed 

The Stuart, landing to resume, by force 

Of arms, the crown which Bigotry had lost. 

Aroused his clan; and, fighting at their head. 

With his brave sword endeavored to prevent 

Culloden's fatal overthrow. Escaped 

From that disastrous rout, to foreign shores 

He fled ; and when the lenient hand of time 

Those troubles had appeased, he sought and gained. 

For his obscured condition, an obscure 

Retreat, within this nook of English ground. 

— The Other, born in Britain's southern tract, 

Had fixed his milder loyalty, and placed 

His gentler sentiments of love and hate. 

There, where they placed them who in conscience prized 

The new succession, as a line of Kings 

Whose oath had virtue to protect the Land 

Agairj^t the dire assaults of Papacy 

And arbitrary Rule. But launch thy Bark 

On the distempered flood of public life. 

And cause for most rare triumph will be thine. 

If, spite of keenest eye and steadiest hand. 

The Stream, that bears thee forward, prove not, eoor 

Or late, a perilous Master. He, who oft. 

Under the battlements and stately trees 

That round his Mansion cast a sober gloom. 



wonnswoRTH's poems. 191 

Had moralized on this, and other truths 

Of kindred import, pleased and satisfied, 

Was forced to vent his wisdom with a sigh 

Heaved from the heart in fortune's biiternesg, 

When he had crushed a plentiful estate 

By ruinous Contest, to obtain a Seat 

Ir Britain's Senate. Fruitless was the attempt ; 

And, Avhile the uproar of that desperate strife 

Continued yet to vibrate on his ear, 

The vanquished Whig, beneath a borrowed name, 

(For the mere sound and echo of his oAvn 

Haunted him with sensations of disgust 

That he was glad to lose,) slunk from the World 

To the deep shade of these untravelled Wilds; 

In which the Scottish Laird had long possessed 

An undisturbed Abode. Here, then, they met, — 

Two doughty Champions ; flaming Jacobitf^ 

And sullen Hanoverian! — You might think 

That losses and vexations, less severe 

Than those which they had severally sustained, 

Would have inclined each to abate his zeal 

For his ungrateful cause. No, — I have heard 

My reverend Father tell that, 'mid the calm 

Of that small Town, encountering thus, they fiiied, 

Daily, its Bowling-green Avith harmless strife ; 

Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the Chux-ch ; 

And vexed the Market-place. But in the breast? 

Of these Opponents gradually \Tas wrought, 

With little change of general sentiment. 

Such change towards each other, that their days 

By choice were spent in constant fellowship; 

And if, at times, they fretted with the yoke, 

Those very bickerings made them love it more. * 

'•* A favorite boundary to their lengthened walks 



192 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

This Church-yard was. And, whether they had come 

Treading their path in sympathy, and linked 

In social converse, or by some short space 

Discreetly parted, to preserve the peace. 

One Spirit seldom failed to extend its sway 

Over both minds, when they awhile had marked 

The visible quiet of this holy ground. 

And breathed its soothing air ; — the Spirit of hope 

And saintly magnanimity ; that, spurning 

The field of selfish difference and dispute, 

And every care which transitory things, 

Earth, and the kingdoms of the earth, create, 

Doth, by a rapture of forgetfulness, 

Preclude forgiveness, from the praise debarred, 

Which else the Christian Virtue might have claimed. 

— There live who yet remember here to have seen 

Their courtly Figures, — seated on the stump 

Of an old Yew, their favorite resting-place. 

But, as the Remnant of the long-lived Tree 

Was disappearing by a swift decay, 

Tliey, with joint care, determined to erect. 

Upon its site, a Dial, that might stand 

For public use preserved, and thus survive 

As their own private monument; for this 

Was the particular spot, in which they wished 

(And heaven was pleased to accomplish the desire) 

That, undivided, their remains should lie. 

So, where the mouldered Tree had stood, was raised 

Yon Structure, framing, with the ascent of steps 

That to the decorated Pillar lead, 

A work of art more sumptuous than might seem 

To suit this Place; yet built in no proud scorn 

•Of rustic homeliness ; they only aimed 

To ensure for it respectful guardianship. 

Around the margin of the Plate, whereon 



Wordsworth's poems. 193 

The Shadow falls to note the stealthy hours, 

Winds an inscriptive Legend.' At these words. 

Thither we turned ; and, gathered, as we read, 

The appropriate sense, in Latin numbers couched. - 

" Time flies ; it is Ms 7nelancholy task 

To bring and bear away delusive hopes, 

And reproduce the troubles he destroys. 

But, xohile his blindness thus is occupied, 

Discerning Mortal ! do thou serve the will 

Of Time's eternal Master, and that peace. 

Which tJie World wants, shall be for thee confrmedT 

" Smooth verse, inspired by no unlettered Muse," 
Exclaimed the Sceptic, " and the strain of thought 
Accords with Nature^s language ; — the soft voice 
Of yon white torrent, falling down the rocks. 
Speaks, less distinctly, to the same effect. 
If, then, their blended influence be not lost 
Upon our hearts, — not wholly lost, I grant, 
Even upon mine, — the more are we required 
To feel for those, among our fellow-men, 
Who, offering no obeisance to the world. 
Are yet made desperate by ' too quick a sense 
Of constant infelicity,' — cut off 
From peace, like Exiles on some barren rock, 
Their life's appointed prison; not more free 
Than Sentinels, between two armies, set, 
With nothing better, in the chill night air, 
Than their own thoughts to comfort them. Say w\i} 
That ancient story of Prometneus chained ? 
The Vulture — the inexhaustible repast 
Drawn from his vitals ? Say, what meant the woes 
By Tantalus entailed upon his race, 
And the dark sorrows of the line of Thebes ? 
Fictions in form, but in their substance truths, 
17 



liJ4 Wordsworth's poems. 

Tremendous truths ! familiar to the men 
Of lona--past times, nor obsolete in ours. 
— Exchange the Shepherd's frock of native ^vny 
For robes with regal purple tinged ; convert 
The crook into a sceptre; give the pomp 
Of circumstance, and here the tragic Muse 
Shall find apt subjects for her highest art. 

— Amid the groves, beneath the shadowy hills, 
The generations are prepared ; the pangs, 
The internal pangs are ready ; the dread strife 
Of poor humanity's afflicted will 

Streggling in vain with ruthless destiny." 

'•'Though," said the Priest, in answer, "these be ler.m 

Which a divine philosophy rejects. 

We, whose established and unfailing trust 

Ts in controlling Providence, admit 

That, through all stations, human life abounds 

With mysteries ; — for, if Faith were left untried, 

How could the might, that lurks within her, then 

Be shown ? her glorious excellence — that ranks 

Among the first of Powers and virtue — proved ? 

Our system is not fashioned to preclude 

That sympathy which you for others ask ; 

And I could tell, not travelling for my theme 

Beyond these humble graves, of grievous crimes 

And strange disasters ; but I pass them by, 

Lotn to disturb what Heaven hath hushed in peace 

— Still less, far less, am I inclined to treat 
Of Man degraded in his Maker's sight 

By the deformities of brutish vice : 

For, in such Portraits, though a vulgar face 

And a coarse outside of repulsive life, 

And unaffecting manners, might at once 

Be recognised by all — " "Ah! do not think.'' 



Wordsworth's pokms. Ii>n 

Tho Wanderer somewhat eagerly exclaimed, 

" Wish could be oars that you, for such poor g-aiu, 

(Gain shall I call it? — gain of what? — for whom ?i 

Should breathe a word tending- to violate 

Your own pure spirit. Not a step we look for 

In slight of that forbearance and reserve 

Which common human-heartedness inspires, 

And mortal ignorance and frailty claim, 

Upon this sacred ground, if nowhere else." 

'True," said the Solitary, "be it far 
From us to infringe the laws of charity. 
Let judgment here in mercy be pronounced ; 
This, self-respecting Nature prompts, and this 
Wisdom enjoins ; but, if the thing we seek 
Be genuine knowledge, bear we then in mind 
How, from his lofty throne, the Sun can fling 
Colors as bright on exhalations bred 
By weedy pool or pestilential swamp. 
As by the rivulet sparkling where it runs, 
Or the pellucid Lake." 

"Small risk," said I, 
" Of such ijlusion do we here incur; 
Temptation here is none to exceed the truth • 
No jvidence appears that they who rest 
Within this ground, were covetous of praise, 
Or of remembrance even, — deserved or not. 
Green is the Church-yard, beautiful and green. 
Ridge rising gently by the side of ridge, — 
A heaving surface, almost wholly free 
Prom interruption of sepulchral stones, 
And mantled o'er with aboriginal turf 
And everlasting flowers. These Dalesmen trusl 



196 Wordsworth's pokms. 

The lingeiing- gleam of their departed Lives 

To oral records and the silent heart ; 

Depository faithful, and more kind 

Tlian fondest Epitaph ; for, if that fail. 

What boots the sculptured Tomb ? and who can blauie 

Who rather would not envy, men that feel 

This mutual confidence; if, from such source, 

The practice flow, — if thence, or from a deep 

And general humility in death ? 

Nor should I much condemn it, if it spring 

From disregard of Time's destructive power, 

As only capable to prey on things 

Of earth, and human nature's morLal part. 

Yet — in less simple districts, where we see 

Stone lift its forehead, emulous of stone, 

In courting notice, and the ground all paved 

With commendations of departed worth ; 

Reading, where'er we turn, of innocent lives, 

Of each domestic charity fulfilled, 

And sufferings meekly borne — I, for my part, 

Though with the silence pleased that here prevails, 

Among those fair recitals also range, 

Soothed by the natural spirit which they breathe. 

And, in the centre of a world whose soil 

Is rank with all unkindness, compassed round 

With such Memorials, I have sometimes felt. 

It was no momentary happiness 

To have one Enclosure where the voice that speai?8 

[n envy or detraction is not heard ; 

Which malice may not enter ; where -the traces 

Of evil inclinations are unknown ; 

Where love and pity tenderly unite 

With resignation ; and no jarring tone 

Intrudes, the peaceful concert to disturb 

Of amity and gratitude." 



Wordsworth's poems. D? 

" Thus sanctioned," 
The Pastor said, "I willing-Iy confine 
My narratives to subjects that excite 
Feelings with these accordant ; love, esteem, 
And admiration; lifting up a veil, 
A sunbeam introducing among hearts 
Retired and covert; so that ye shall have 
Clear images before your gladdened eyes 
Of Nature's unambitious underwood, 
And flowers that prosper in the shade. And when 
I speak of such among my flock as swerved 
Or fell, those only will I single out 
Upon whose lapse, or error, something more 
Than brotherly forgiveness may attend ; 
To such will we restrict our notice — else 
Better my tongue were mute. And yet there are, 
I feel, good reasons why we should not leave 
Wholly untraced a more forbidding way. 
For strength to persevere and to support, 
And energy to conquer and repel ; — 
These elements of virtue, that declare 
The native grandeur of the human Soul, 
Are oft-times not unprofitably shown 
In the perverseness of a selfish course: 
Truth every day exemplified, no less 
In the gray cottage by the murmuring stream, 
Than in fantastic Conqueror's roving camp, 
Or 'mid the factious Senate, unappalled 
While merciless proscription ebbs and flows. 
— There," said the Vicar, pointing as he spake, 
" A Woman rests in peace ; surpassed by few 
In power of mind, and eloquent discourse. 
Tall was her stature ; her complexion dark 
And saturnine ; her head not raised to hold 
Converse with Heaven, nor yet deprest tow'rds earth. 
17* 



198 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

But in projection carried, as she walked, 
For ever musing. Sunken were her eyes ; 
Wrinkled and furrowed with habitual thought 
Was her broad forehead ; like the brow of One 
Whose visual nerve shrinks from a painful glare 
Of overpowering light. While yet a Child, 
She, 'mid th.e humble Flowerets of the vale. 
Towered like the imperial Thistle, not unfurnished 
V/ith its appropriate grace, yet rather seeking 
To be admired, than coveted or loved. 
Even at that age she ruled, a sovereign Queen, 
Over her Comrades ; else their simple sports, 
Wanting all relish for her strenuous mind. 
Had crossed her, only to be shunned with scorn. 
— Oh ! pang of sorrowful regret for those 
Whom, in their youth, sweet study has enthralled. 
That they have lived for harsher servitude. 
Whether in soul, in body, or estate ! 
Such doom was hers ; yet nothing could subdue 
Her keen desire of knowledge, nor efface 
Those brighter images — by books imprest 
Upon her memory, faithfully as stars 
That occupy their places, — and, though oft 
Hidden by clouds, and oft bedimmed by haze. 
Are not to be extinguished, nor impaired. 

"Two passions, both degenerate, for they both 

Began in honor, — gradually obtained 

Rule over her, and vexed her daily life: — 

An unrelenting, avaricious thrift; 

And a strange thraldom of maternal love, 

That held her spirit, in its own despite, 

Bound — by vexation, and regret, and scorn, 

Constrained forgiveness, and relenting vows, 

And tears, in pride suppressed, in shame concealed 



WORDS v/oRTii's ^fJF^;s. 109 

To a poor dissolute Son, her only Child. 

— Her wedded days had opened with mishap, 

Whence dire dependence. — What could she perform 

To shake the burthen ofF.^ Ah ! there was felt, 

Indignantly, the weakness of her sex. 

She mused — resolved, adhered to her resolve ; 

The hand g-rew slack in alms-giving, the heart 

Closed by degrees to charity ; heaven's blessing 

Not seeking from that source, she placed her trust 

In ceaseless pains and parsimonious care, 

Which got, and sternly hoarded, each day's gain. 

" Thus all was re-established, and a pile 

Constructed, tha^ sufficed for every end 

Save the contentment of the Builder's mind ; 

A Mind by nature indisposed to aught 

So placid, so inactive, as content ; 

A Mind intolerant of lasting peace, 

And cherishing the pang which it deplored. 

Dread life of conflict! which I oft compared 

To the agitation of a brook that runs 

Down rocky mountains — buried now and lost 

In silent pools, now in strong eddies chained, - 

But never to be charmed to gentleness ; 

Its best attainment fits of such repose 

As timid eyes might shrink from fathoming. 

" A sudden illness seized her in the strength 
Of ife's autumnal season. — Shall I tell 
How on her bed of death the Matron lay, 
To Providence submissive, so she thought ; 
But fretted, vexed, and wrought upon — almost 
To anger, by the malady that griped 
Her prostrate frame with unrelaxing power, 
As the fierce Eagle fastens on the L:i:;;h - 



200 Wordsworth's poems. 

She prayed, she moaned — her husband's Sister watched 

Her dreary pillow, waited on her needs ; 

And yet the very sound of that kind foot 

Was anguish to her ears! — 'And must she rule,' 

This was the dying Woman heard to say 

In bitterness, ' and must she rule and reign, 

Sole Mistress of this house, when I am gone ? 

Sit by my fire — possess what I possessed — 

Tend what I tended — calling it her own ! ' 

Enough; — I fear, too much. — One vernal evenui;r, 

While she was yet in prime of health and strength. 

I well remember, while I passed her door, 

Musing with loitering step, and upward eye 

Turned towards the Planet Jupiter that hung 

Above the centre of the Vale, a voice 

Roused me, her voice ; it said, ' That glorious Star 

In its untroubled element will shine 

As now it shines, when we are laid in earth 

And safe from all our sorrows.' — She is safe, 

And her uncharitable acts, I trust, 

And harsh unkindness, are all forgiven ; 

Though, in this Vale, remembered with deep awel" 



The Vicar paused ; and tow'rd a seat advanced, 
A long stone-seat, fixed in the Church-yard wall ; 
Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part 
Offering a sunny resting-place to them 
Who seek the House of worship, while the Bel's 
Yet ring with all their voices, or before 
The last hath ceased its solitary knoll. 
Under the shade we all sat down anc there 
His office, uninvited, he resumed. 



W0RDSV70RTH's POEMS. 20 

^ As on a sunny bank, a tender Lamb 

Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of March, 

Screened by its Parent, so that little mound 

Lies guarded by its neighbor ; the small heap 

Speaks for itself; — an Infant there doth rest, 

The sheltering Hillock is the Mother's grave. 

It ^ild discourse, and manners that conferred 

A natural dignity on humblest rank ; 

If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks, 

That for a face not beautiful did more 

Than beauty for the fairest face can do ! 

And if religious tenderness of heart. 

Grieving for sin and penitential tears 

Shed when the clouds had gathered and dii=!taine(i 

The spotless ether of a maiden life ; 

If these may make a hallowed spot of earth 

More holy in the sight of God or Man; 

Then, o'er that mould, a sanctity shall brood 

Till the stars sicken at the day of doom. 

"Ah! what a warning for a thoughtless Man, 
Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, 
Show to his eye an image of the pangs 
Which it hath witnessed ; render back an echo 
Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod ! 
There, by her innocent Baby's precious grave, 
Yea, doubtless, on the turf that roofs her own, 
The Mother oft was seen to stand, or kneel 
In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene. 
Now she is not ; the swelling turf reports 
Of the fresh shower, but of poor Ellen's tears 
Is silent ; nor is any vestige left 
Of the path worn by mournful tread of Her 
Who, at her heart's light bidding, once had moved 
In virgin fearlessness, with step that seemed 



202 v.-onnswor.TTrs pokws. 

Caught from the pressure of elastic turf 

Upon the mountains gemmed with morning dew, 

In the prime hour of sweetest scents and airs. 

— Serious and thoughtful was her mind ; and yet 
By reconcilement exquisite and rare, 

The form, port, motions of this Cottage-giH 

Were such as might have quickened and mspired 

A Titian's nana addrest to picture forth 

Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade ; 

What tmie the Hunter's earliest horn is heard 

Startling the golden hills. A wide-spread Elm 

Stands in our Valley, named The Joyful Trek, 

From dateless usage which our Peasants hold 

Of giving welcome to the first of May 

By dances round its trunk. — And if the sky 

Permit, like honors, dance and song, are paid 

To the Twelfth Night, beneath the frosty Stars 

Or the clear Moon. The Queen of these gay sportj? 

If not in beauty yet in sprightly air, 

Was hapless Ellen. — No one touched the grouiil 

So deftly, and the nicest Maiden's locks 

Less gracefully were braided ; — but this praise, 

Methinks, would better suit another place. 

" She loved, and fondly deemed herself beloved, 

— The road is dim, the current unperceived. 
The weakness painful and most pitiful. 

By which a virtuous Woman, in pure youth, 
May be delivered to distress and shame. 
Such fate was hers. — the last time Ellen danced, 
Among her Equals, round The Joyful Tree, 
She bore a secret burthen ; and full soon 
Was left to tremble for a breaking vow,— 
Then, to bewail a sternly-broken vow. 
Alone, within her widowed Mother's house. 



Wordsworth's poems. 203 

It was the season sweet, of budding* leaves, 
Of days advancing- toward their utmost leng-tn. 
And small birds singing to their happy mates. 
Wild is the music of the autumnal wind 
Among the faded woods ; but these blithe notes 
Strike the deserted to the heart; — -I speak 
Of what I know, and what we feel within. 

— Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt 
Stands a tall ash-tree : to whose topmost twig 
A Thrush resorts, and annually chants, 

At morn and evening from that naked perch. 

While all the undergrove is thick with leaves, 

A time-beguiling ditty, for delight 

Of his fond partner, silent in the nest. 

— ' Ah why,' said Ellen, sighing to herself, 

'Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge; 

And nature that is kind in Woman's breast, 

And reason that in Man is wise and good, 

And fear of Him who is a righteous Judge, 

Why do not these prevail for human life, 

To keep two Hearts together, that began 

Their spring-time with one love, and that have need 

Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet 

To grant, or be received ; while that poor Bird, 

— O come and hear him' Thou who hast to me 
Been faithless, hear him, though a lowly Creature, 
One of God's simple children that yet know not 
The universal Parent, how he sings 

As if he wished the firmanent of Heaven 
Should listen, and give back to him the voice 
Of his triumphant constancy and love ; 
The proclamation that he makes, how far 
His darkness doth transcend our fickle light ! 

" Such was the tender passage, no*- by me 



204 Wordsworth's poems 

Repeated without loss of simple phrase, 

Which I perused, even as the words had been 

Committed by forsaken Ellen's hand 

To the blank margin of a Valentine, 

Bedropped with tears. 'Twill please you to be told 

That, studiously withdrawing- from the eye 

Of all companionship, the Sufferer yet 

In lonely reading found a meek resource ; 

How thankful for the warmth of summer days, 

When she could slip into the Cottage-barn, 

And find a secret oratory there ; 

Or, in the garden, under friendly veil 

Of their long twilight, pore upon her book 

By the last lingering help of open sky. 

Till the dark night dismissed her to her bed ! 

Thus did a waking Fancy sometimes lose 

The unconquerable pang of despised love. 

" A kindlier passion opened on her soul 

When that poor Child was born. Upon its face 

She looked as on a pure and spotless gift 

Of unexpected promise, where a grief 

Or dread was all that had been thought of — joy 

Far livelier than bewildered Traveller feels 

Amid a perilous waste, that all night long 

Hath harassed him — toiling through fearful storm. 

When he beholds the first pale speck serene 

Of day-spring, in the gloomy east revealed, 

And greets it with thanksgiving. ' Till this hour,' 

Thus, in her Mother's hearing Ellen spake, 

'There was a stony region in my heart; 

But He, at whose command the parched rock 

Was smitten, and poured forth a quenching stream 

Hath soflene'd that obduracy, and made 

Uplooked-for gladness in the desert place, 



WORDSWORTH S POEiMS. '205 

To save the perishing ; and, henceforth, 1 look 

Upon the light with cheerfulness, for thee, 

My Infant ! and that good Mother dear, 

Who bore me, — and hath prayed for me in vain ; - - 

Yet not in vain, it shall not be in vain.' 

She spake, nor was the assurance unfulfilled, 

And if heart-rending thoughts would oft return, 

They stayed not long. — The blameless Infant grew ; 

The Child whom Ellen and her Mother loved 

They soon were proud of; tended it and nursed, 

A soothing comforter, although forlorn ; 

Like a poor singing-bird from distant lands ; 

Or a choice shrub, which he, who passes by 

With vacant mind, not seldom may observe 

Fair-flowering in a thinly-peopled house, 

Whose window, somewhat sadly, it adorns. 

— Through four montlis' space the Infant drew its food 

From the maternal breast ; then scruples rose ; 

Thoughts, which the rich are free from, came and 

crossed 
The sweet affection. She no more could bear 
By her oifence to lay a twofold weight 
On a kind parent willing to forget 
Their slender means ; so, to that parent's care 
Trusting her child, she left their common home, 
And with contented spirit undertook 
A Foster-Mother's office. 

" 'Tis, perchance. 
Unknown to you that in these simple Vales 
Tiie natural feeling of equality 
Is by domestic service unimpaired ; 
Yet, though such service be, Avith us, removed 
Prom sense of degradation, not the less 
The ungentle mind can easily find means 

rs 



;C(> WORI-SWORTll's i'OKAIS 

To impose severe restraints and laws unjust, 
Which hapless Ellen now ■•.I'as doo-ned to feel. 

— For (blinded by an over-anxious dread 
Of such excitement and divided thoug-ht 
As with her office would but ill accord) 

The Pair, whose Infant she was bound to nurse, 
Forbade her all communion with her own ; 
Week after week, the mandate they enforced. 

— So near! — yet not allowed, upon that sight 
To fix her eyes — alas! 'twas hard to bear! 
But worse affliction must be borne — far worse : 
For 'tis Heaven's will — that, after a disease 
Begun and ended within three days' space, 
Her Child should die ; as Ellen now exclaimed, 
Her own — deserted Child! — Once, only once. 
She saAv it in that mortal malady ; 

And, on the burial day, could scarcely gain 
Permission to attend its obsequies. 
She reached the house — last of. the funeral train ; 
And some One, as she entered, having chanced 
To urge unthinkingly their prompt departure, 
' Nay,' said she, with commanding look, a s|)irit 
Of anger never seen in her before, 
'Nay, ye must wait my time!' and down cshe sate^ 
And by the unclosed coffin kept her seat 
Weeping and looking, looking on and weeping, 
Upon the last sweet slumber of her Child, 
Until at length her soul was satisfied. 

"You see the Infant's Grave; — and to this Spot, 
The mother, ofl as she was sent abroad. 
And whatsoe'er the errand, urged her steps : 
Hither she came; here stood, and sometimes knelt 
In the broad day — a rueful Magdalene! 
So call her ; for not only she bewailed 



woRifSv.'orvTn s poF.:\i: 



20? 



A Mother's loss, but mourned in bitterness 
Her own transgression, Penitent sincere 
As ever raised to Heaven a streaming eye. 

— At length the Parents of tiie Foster-child, 
Noting that in despite of their commands 
She still renewed and could not but renew 
Those visitations, ceased to send her forth ; 
Or, to the garden's narrow bounds, confined. 
[ failed not to reinind them that they erred ; 
For holy nature might not thus be crossed, 

Thus wronged in woman's breast: in vain I pieadco • 
But the green stalk of Ellen's life was snapped. 
And the flower drooped: as every eye could see, 
It hung its head in. mortal languishment. 

— Aided by this appearence, I at length 
Prevailed ; and, from those bonds released, she v.cnt 
Home to her mother's house. Tiie Youth was fled ; 
Tiie rash Betrayer could not face the shanjo 

Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had caused; 

And little would his presence, or proof given 

Of a relenting soul, have now availed ; 

J'^or, like a shadow, he was passed away 

From Ellen's thoughts; had perished to her luwA 

For all concerns of fear, or hope, or love, 

Uave only those which to their common shame. 

And to his moral being, appertained: 

Hope from that quarter would, I know, have brought 

A heavenly comfort ; tiiere she recognized 

An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need; 

There, and, as seemed, there only, — she had built 

Her fond maternal Heart had built, a Nest 

In blindness all too near the river's edge ; 

That Work a summer flood with hasty swell 

Had swept away; and now her Spirit longed 

For its last flight to Heaven's security. 



208 Wordsworth's poems. 

— The bodily frame was wasted day by day ; 
Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares. 

Eler mind she strictly tutored to find peace 

And pleasure in endurance. Much she thoutrht, 

And much she read ; and brooded feelingly 

Upon her own unworthiness. To me, 

As to a spiritual comforter and friend, 

Her heart she opened ; and no pains were spared 

To mitigate, as gently as I could, 

The sting of self-reproach, with healing words. 

— Meek Saint! through patience glorified on earth 
In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate, 

The ghastly face of cold decay put on 

A sun-like beauty, and appeared divine I 

May I not mention — that, within those walls, 

In due observance of her pious wish, 

The Congregation joined with me in prayer 

For her Soul's good ? Nor was that office vain. 

— Much did she suffer: but, if any Friend, 
Beholding her condition, at the sight 
Gave way to words of pity or complaint. 

She stilled them with a prompt reproof, and said, 
'He who afflicts me knows what I can bear; 
And, when I fail, and can endure no more. 
Will mercifully take me to himself.' 
So through the cloud of death, her Spirit passed 
Into that pure and unknown world of love 
Where injury cannot come: — and here is laid 
The mortal Body by her Infant's side." 

The Vicar ceased ; and downcast looks made known 
That Each had listened with his inmost heart. 
For me, the emotion scarcely was less strong 
Or less benign than that which I had fol; 
When, seated near my venerable Friend, 



trORDSWORTH's POEMS. 209 

Beneath those shady ehus, from him I heard 
The story that retraced the slow decline 
Of Margaret sinking on the lonely Heath, 
With the neglected House to Avhich she clung 
— I noted that the Solitary's cheek 
Confessed the Power of nature. — Pleased though sad 
More pleased than sad, the gray-haired Wanderer sate 
Thanks to his pure imaginative soul 
Capacious and serene, his blameless life. 
His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, and love 
Of human kind ! He was it who first broke 
The pensive silence, saying, " Blest are they 
Whose sorrow rather is to suifer wrong 
Than to do wrong, although themselves have erred. 
This Tale gives proof that Heaven most gently deah 
With such in their affliction. Ellen's fate, 
Her tender spirit, and her contrite heart, 
Call to my mind dark hints which I have heard 
Of One who died within this Vale, by doom 
Heavier, as his offence was heavier far. 
Where, Sir, I pray you, where are laid the bones 
Of Wilfred Armathwaite ?" — The Vicar answered, 
" In that green nook, close by the Church-yard wall, 
Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself 
In memory and for warning, and in sign 
Of sweetness where dire anguish had been known, 
Of reconcilement after deep offence. 
There doth he rest. — No theme his fate supplies 
For the smooth glozings of the indulgent world; 
Nor need the windings of his devious course 
Be here retraced ; — enough that, by mishap 
And venial error, robbed of competence, 
And her obsequious shadow, peace of mind, 
He craved a substitute in troubled joy ; 
Against his conscience rose in arns, and, braving 
18* 



210 Wordsworth's poems. 

Divine displeasure, broke tl»e marriage-vow. 

That which he had been weak enough to do 

Was misery in remembrance ; he was stung-, 

Stung by his inward thoughts, and by the smiles 

Of Wife and Children stung to agony. 

Wretched at home, he gained no peace abroad ; 

Ranged through the mountains, slept upon the earth 

Asked comfort of the open air, and found 

No quiet in the darkness of the night, 

No pleasure in the beauty of the day. 

His flock he slighted ; his paternal fields 

Became a clog to him, whose spirit wished 

To fly, but whither ? and this gracious Church, 

That wears a look so full of peace and hope 

And love, benignant Mother of the Vale, 

ilow fair amid her brood of Cottages ! 

She was to him a sickness and reproach. 

Much to the last remained unknown : but this 

Is sure, that through remorse and grief he died ; 

Though pitied among Men, absolved by God, 

He could not find forgiveness in himself; 

Nor could endure the weight of his own shame. 

" Here rests a Mother. But from her I turn 

And from her grave. — Behold — upon that Ridge, 

That, stretching boldly from the mountain side, 

Carries into the centre of the Vale 

Its rocks and woods — the Cottage where she dwel 

And yet where dv/ells her faithful Partner, left, 

(Pull eight years past) the solitary prop, 

Of many helpless Children. I begin 

With words that might be prelude to a Talc 

Of sorrow and dejection ; but I feel 

No sadness, when I think of what mine eyes 

See daily in that happy Family. 



Wordsworth's poKivis. '211 

— Briglit Garland form they for the pensive brow 
Of their undrooping Father's Widowhood, 
Those six fair Daughters, budding yet — not one, 
Not one of all the band, a full-blown Flower! 
Deprest, and desolate of soul, as once 

That Father was, and filled with anxious fear, 

Now, by experience taught, he stands assured, 

That God, who takes away, yet takes not half 

Of what he seems to take ; or gives it back, 

Not to our prayer but far beyond our ])rayer; 

He gives it — the boon produce of a soil 

Which our endeavors have refused to till, 

And Hope hath never watered. The Abode, 

Whose grateful Owner can attest those truths, 

Even were the object nearer to our sight. 

Would seem in no distinction to surpass 

The rudest habitations. Ye might think 

That it had sprung self-raised from earth, or grown 

Out of the living rock, to be adorned 

By nature only ; but, if thither led. 

Ye would discover, then, a studious work 

Of many fancies, prompting many hands. 

— Brought from the Avoods, the honeysuckle twines 
Around the porch, and seems, in that trim place, 
A Plant no longer wild ; the cultured rose 

There blossoms, strong in health, and will be soon 
Roof-high ; the wild pink crowns the garden wall, 
And with the flowers are intermingled stones 
Sparry and bright, rough scatterings of the hills. 
These ornaments, that fade not with the year, 
A hardy Girl continues to provide ; 
Who, mounting fearlessly the rocky he.ghts, 
Her Father's prompt Attendant, does for him 
All that a Boy could do, but with delight 
More keen and prouder daring ; yet hath she. 



212 Wordsworth's poems. 

Within the garden, like the rest, a bed 

Por her own flowers and favorite herbs — a space, 

By sacred charter, holden for her use. 

These, and whatever else the garden bears 

Of fruit or flower, permission asked or not, 

I freely gather ; and my leisure drawp 

A not unfrequent pastime from the sigh 

Of the Bees murmuring round their sheltered hives 

In that Enclosure; while the mountain rill, 

That sparkling thrids the rocks, attunes his voice 

To the pure course of human life, which there 

Flows on in solitude. But, when the gloom 

Of night is falling round my steps, then most 

This Dwelling charms me ; often I stop short, 

(Who could refrain?) and feed by stealth my sight 

With prospect of the Company within, 

Laid open through the blazing window ; — there 

I see the eldest daughter at her wheel 

Spinning amain, as if to overtake 

The never halting Time ; or, in her turn, 

Teaching some Novice of the Sisterhood 

That skill in this or other household work, 

Which, from her Father's honored iiand, herself, 

While she was yet a little-one, had learned. 

--Mild Man! he is not gay, but they are gay; 

And the whole house seems filled with gaiety. 

— Thrice happy, then, the Mother may be deemed 

The Wife, from whose consolatory grave 

I turned, that ye in mind might witness where, 

And how, her Spirit yet survives on Earth." 



THE EXCURSION . 



BOOK THE SEVENTH. 

THE CHURCH-YARD AlIONG THE MOUNTAINS, 

CONTINUED. 

ARGUMENT. 

Impression of these Narratives upon the Author's mind — Pastor 
invited to give account of certain graves that lie apart — Clergymar 
and his Family — Fortunate influence of change of situation — 
Activity in extreme old age — Another Clergyman, a character of 
resolute Virtue — Lamentations over misdirected applause — Instance 
of less exalted excellence in a deaf man — Elevated character of a 
uiind man— Reflection upon blindness — Interrupted by a Peasant 
who passes — His animal cheerfulness and careless vivacity — He 
occasions a digression on the fall of beautiful and iiUeresting Trees — 
A female Infant's Grave — Joy at her Birth — Sorrow at her Depart- 
ure — A youthful Peasant — His patriotic enthusiasm — distingushcd 
qualities — and untimely death — Exultation of the "Wanderer, as a 
patriot, in this Picture — Solitary, how afl^ected — Monument of a 
Knight — Traditions concerning him — Peroration of the Wanderer 
on the Iransitoriness of things and the revolutions of society — Hints 
at bis own past Calling — Thanks the Pastor. 

While thus from theme to theme the Historian passed, 
Tlie words he uttered, and the scene that lay 
Before our eyes, awakened in my mind 
Vivid remembrance of those lon;^-past hours; 
When, in the hollow of some shadowy Vale, 



214 Wordsworth's poeiviss. 

(What time the splendor of the setting sun 

Lay beautiful on Snowdon's sovereign brow, 

On Cader Idris, or huge Penmanniaur) 

A wandering Youth, I listened v/ith delight 

To pastoral melody or warlike air, 

Drawn from the chords of the ancient British harp 

By some accomplished Master, while he sate 

Amid the quiet of the green recess, 

And there did inexhaustibly dispense 

An interchange of soft or solemn tunes. 

Tender or blithe; now, as the varying 'mood 

Of his own spirit urged, — now, as a voice 

From Youth or Maiden, or some honored Chief 

Of his compatriot villagers (that liung 

Around him, drinking in the impassioned notes 

Of the time-hallowed minstrelsy) required 

For their heart's ease or pleasure. Strains of powe? 

Were they to seize and occupy the sense; 

But to a higher mark than song can reach 

Rose this pure eloquence. And, when the stream 

Which overflowed the soul was passed away, 

A consciousness remained that it had left. 

Deposited upon the silent shore 

Of memory, images and precious thoughts. 

That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed. 

" These grassy heaps lie amicably close," 

Said I, " like surges heavdng in the wind 

Upon the surface of a mountain pool ; 

— Whence comes it then, that yosider we behold 

Five graves, and only five, that rise together 

Unsociably sequestered, and encroaching 

On the sn)Ooth play-ground of the Village-schdol?" 

The Vicar answered. "No disdainful pride 



Wordsworth's pokms. 215 

fn them who rest beneath, nor any coarse 
Of strange or tragic accident, h;ith helped 
To place those Hillocks in that lonely guise. 

— Once more look forth, and follow with your sight 
The length of road that from yon mountain's base 
Through bare enclosures stretches, till its line 

Is lost within a little tuft of trees, — 

Then reappearing in a moment, quits 

The cultured fields, — and up the heathy waste. 

Mounts, as you see, in mazes serpentine, 

Towards an easy outlet of the Vale. 

— That little shady spot, that sylvan tuft, 
By which the road is hidden, also hides 

A Cottage from our view, — though I discern 
{Ye scarcely can) amid its sheltering trees 
The smokeless chinmey-top. All unembowered 
And naked stood that lowly Parsonage 
(For such in truth it is, and appertains 
To a small Chapel in the Vale beyond) 
When hither came its last Inhabitant 

" Rough and forbidding v/ere the choicest roads 

By which our Northern wilds could then be crossed 

And into most of these secluded Vales 

Was no aiicess for wain, heavy or light 

So, at his Dwelling-place the Priest arrived 

With store of household goods, in panniers slung 

On sturdy horses graced with jingling bells, 

And on the back of more ignoble beast; 

That, with like burthen of effects most prized 

Or easiest carried, closed the motley train. 

Voung was I then, a school-boy of eight years ; 

But still, methinks, I see them as they passed 

[n order, drawing tow'rd their wished-for home, 

— Rocked by the motion of a trusty Ass, 



216 Wordsworth's poems. 

Two ruddy Children hung-, a well-poised freinfJ!!, 

Each in his basket nodding drowsily ; 

Their bonnets, I remember, wreathed with flov.orH. 

Which told it was the pleasant month of June ; 

And, close behind, the comely matron rode, 

A Woman of soft speech and gracious smile, 

And with a Lady's mien. From far they came, 

Even from Northumbrian hills ; yet theirs had been 

A merry journey — ricli in pastime — cheered 

By music, prank, and laughter-stirring jest ; 

And freak put on, and arch word dropped — to swell 

The cloud of fancy and uncouth surmise 

That gathered round the slowly-moving train. 

— 'Whence do they come ? and with what errancJ 

charged ? 
Belong they to the fortune-telling Tribe 
Who pitch their tents beneath the green-wood Tree ' 
Or are they Strollers, furnished to enact 
Fair Rosamond, and the Children of the Wood, 
And by that Avhiskered Tabby's aid, set forth 
The lucky venture of sage Whittington, 
When the next Village hears the Show announced 
By blast of trumpet ? ' Plenteous was the growth 
Of such conjectures, overheard, or seen 
On many a staring countenance portrayed 
Of Boor or Burgher, as they marched along. 
And more than once their steadiness of face 
Was put to proof, and exercise supplied 
To their inventive humor, by stern looks. 
And questions in authoritative tone. 
From some staid Guardian of the public peace, 
Checking the sober steed on which he rode, 
In his suspicious wisdom ; oftener stiil, 
By notice indirect, or blunt demand, 
From Traveller halting in his own despite, 



Wordsworth's poems. 217 

A simple curiosity to ease : 
Oi which adventures, that beguiled and cheered 
Their grave migration, the good pair would tell. 
With undiminished glee, in hoary age. 

"A Priest he was by function; but his course 

From his youth up, and high as manhood's noon, 

(The hour of life to which he then was brought) 

Had been irregular, I might say, wild ; 

By books unsteadied, by his pastoral care 

Too little checked. An active, ardent mind ; 

A fancy pregnant with resource and scheme 

To cheat the sadness of a rainy day; 

Hands apt for all ingenious arts and games ; 

A generous spirit, and a body strong 

To cope with stoutest Champions of the bowl ; 

Had earned for him sure welcome, and the rights 

Of a prized Visitant, in the jolly hall 

f)f country squire ; or at the statelier board 

' )f Duke or Earl, from scenes of courtly pomp 

W'^ithdrawn, — to while away the summer hours 

In condescension among rural guests. 

"With these high comrades he had revelled lojig, 
P'rolicked industriously, a simple Clerk 
By hopes of coming patronage beguiled 
Till the heart sickened. So each loftier aim 
Abandoning, and all his showy Friends, 
For a life's stay, though slender yet assured, 
He turned to this secluded Chapehy : 
That had been offered to his doubtful choice 
By an unthought-of Patron. Bleak and bare 
They found the Cottage, their allotted home 
Naked without, and rude within ; a spot 
With which the scantily provided Cure 



2J8 Wordsworth's i'Oems. 

Not long had been endowed ; and far remote 

The Chapel stood, divided from that House 

By an unpeopled tract of mountain waste. 

— Yet cause was none, whate'er reg-ret might iKsng 

On liis own mind, to quarrel with the choice 

Or the necessity that fixed him here ; 

Apart from old temptations, and constrained 

To punctual labor in his sacred charge. 

See liim a constant Preacher to the Poor ! 

And visiting, though not with saintly zeal. 

Yet, when need was, with no reluctant will, 

The sick in body, or distrest in mind ; 

And, by as salutary change, compelled 

To rise from timely sleep, and meet the day 

With no engagement, in his thoughts, more proud 

Or splendid than his garden could afford. 

His fields, or mountains by the heath-cock ranged, 

Or the Avild brooks ; from which he now returned 

Contented to partake the quiet meal 

Of his own board, where sate his gentle Mate 

And three fair Children, plentifully fed 

Though simply, from their little household farm ; 

With acceptable treat of fish or fowl 

By nature yielded to his practised hand — 

To help the small but certain comings-in 

Of that spare Benefice. Yet not the less 

l^heirs was a hospitable board, and theirs 

A charitable door. So days and years 

Passed on; — the inside of that rugged House 

Was trimmed and brightened by the Matron's care, 

And gradually enriched with things of price, 

Which might be lacked for use or ornament. 

What, though no soft and costly sofa there 

Insidiously stretched out its lazy length. 

And no ^^in mirror glittered on thf^ walla. 



WORDSWORTH'S I'ORMS. '«JI9 

Vet were tne windows of the low Abode 

By shutters weather-fended, which at onco 

Repelled the storm and deadened its loud roar. 

There snow-white curtains hung in decent folds ; 

Tough moss, and long-enduring- mountain plants, 

Tiiat creep along the ground with sinuous trail, 

Were nicely braided, and composed a work 

Like Indian mats, that with appropriate grace 

Lay at the threshold and the inner doors ; 

And a fair carpet, woven of homespun wool, 

But tinctured daintily with florid hues, 

For seemliness and v.'armth, on festal days. 

Covered the smooth blue slabs of mountain stone 

Witii which the parlor-floor, in simplest guise 

Of pastoral homesteads, had been long inlaid. 

— These pleasing works the Housewife's skill produced 

Meanwhile the unsedentary Master's hand 

Was busier with his task — to rid, to plant, 

To rear for food, for shelter, and delight, 

A thriving covert ! And when wishes, formed 

In youth, and sanctioned by the riper mind. 

Restored me to my native Valley, here 

To end my days ; well pleased was I to see 

The once-bare Cottage, on the mountain-side, 

Screened from assault of every bitter blast; 

While the dark shadows of the summer leaves 

Danced in the breeze, upon its mossy roof. 

Time, which had thus afforded willing help 

To beautify vvith Nature's fairest growth 

This rustic Tenement, had gently shed, 

Upon its Master's frame, a wintry grace ; 

The comeliness of unenfeebled age. 

But how could t say, gently ? for he still 

Retained a flashing eye, a burning palm, 

A stirring foot a hend which beat at nights 



220 wortisworth's hofm = 

{Jpon its pillow witL a thousand schemes. 

Few likings had he dropped, few pleasures lost ; 

Generous and charitable, prompt to serve ; 

And still his harsher passions kept their hold, 

Anger and indignation ; still he loved 

The sound of titled names, and talked in glee 

Of long-past banquetings with high-born Friends : 

Then, from those lulling fits of vain delight 

Uproused by recollected injury, railed 

At their false ways disdainfully, — and oft 

In bitterness, and with a threatening eye 

Of fire, incensed beneath its hoary brow. 

— These transports, with staid looks of pure good-will 
And with soft smile, his Consort would reprove. 
She, far behind him in the race of years. 

Yet keeping her first mildness, was advanced 

Far nearer, in the habit of her soul, 

To that still region whither all are bound. 

— Him might we liken to tlie setting Sun 
As seen not seldom on some gusty day, 
Strugglmg and hold, and shining from the west 
With an inconstant and unmellowed light ; 
She was a soft attendant Cloud, that hung 

As if with wish to veil the restless orb ; 

From which it did itself imbibe a ray 

Of pleasing lustre. — But no more of this; 

I better love to sprinkle on the sod 

That now divides the Pair, or rather say 

That still unites them, praises, like heaven's dew 

Without reserve descending upon both. 

'Our very first in eminence of years 

This old Man stood, the Patriarch of the Vale < 

And, to his unmolested mansion, Death 

[lad never come, through space of forty years 



WORDS W DRTh's POF.MS. Q0\ 

Sparing- both old and young- in that Abode. 

Suddenly then they disappeared : not twice 

Had summer scorched the fields ; not twice had fallen 

On those high Peaks, the first autumnal snow, 

Before the greedy visiting was closed. 

And the long-privileged House left empty — swept 

As by a plague : yet no rapacious plague 

Had been among them ; all was gentle death, 

One after one, with intervals of peace. 

— A happy consummation ! an accord 

Sweet, perfect — to be wished for ! save that here 

Was something which to mortal sense might sound 

Like harshness, — that the old gray-headed Sire, 

The oldest, he was taken last, — survived 

When the meek Partner of his age, his Son, 

His Daughter, and that late and high-prized gilt. 

His little smiling Grandchild, were no more. 

" ' All gone, all vanished ! he deprived and bare, 
How will he face the remnant of his life ? 
What will become of him ? ' we said, and mused 
In sad conjectures — ' Shall we meet him now 
Haunting with rod and line the craggy brooks ? 
Or shall we overhear him, as we pass, 
Striving to entertain the lonely hours 
With music ? ' (for he had not ceased to touch 
The harp or viol which himself had framed, 
For tlieir sweet purposes, Avith perfect skill.) 
' What titles Avill he keep ? will he remain 
Musician, Gardener, Builder, Mechanist, 
A Planter, and a rearer from the Seed ? 
A Man of hope and forward-looking mind 
Even to the last ! ' — Such was he, unsubdued. 
But Heaven was gracious; yet a little while. 
And this Survivor, with his cheerful throng 
19* 



222 VVORDSV/ORTH'i POEMS. 

Of open schemes, and all his inward hoard 
Of unsunned griefs, too many and too keeri, 
Was overcome by unexpected sleep, 
In one blest moment. Like a shadow thrown 
Softly and lightly from a passing cloud, 
Death fell upon him, while reclined he lay 
For noontide solace on ^he summer grass. 
The warm lap of his Mother Earth : and so, 
Their lenient term of separation past, 
That family (whose graves you there behold) 
By yet a higher privilege once more 
Were gathered to each other." 

Calm of mind 
And silence waited on these closing words ; 
Until the Wanderer (whether moyed by fear 
Lest in those passages of life were some 
That might have touched the sick heart of his Friend 
Too nearly, or intent to reinforce 
His own firm spirit in degree deprest 
By tender sorrow for our mortal state) 
Thus silence broke : — " Behold a thoughtless Man 
From vice and premature decay preserved 
By useful habits, to a fitter soil 
Transplanted ere too late. — The Hermit, lodged 
In the untrodden desert, tells his beads, 
With each repeating its allotted prayer, 
And thus divides and thus relieves the time ; 
Smooth task, with his compared, whose mind could striri^j 
Not scantily, bright minutes on the thread 
Of keen domestic anguish, — and beguile 
. i. solitude, unchosen, unprofessed ; 
rill gentlest death released him. Far from us 
Be the desire — too curiously to ask 
How much of this is but the blind result 



Wordsworth's poems. 2ti3 

Of cordial spirits and vital temperament, 

And what to higher powers is justly due. 

But you, Sir, know that in a neighboring Vale 

A Priest abides before whose life such doubts 

Fall to the ground ; whose gifts of Nature lie 

Retired from notice, lost in attributes 

Of Reason — honorably effaced by debts 

Which her poor treasure-house is content to owe 

And conquests over her dominion gained, 

To which her forwardness must needs submit. 

In this one Man is shown a temperance — proof 

Against all trials ; industry severe 

And constant as the motion of the day ; 

Stern self-denial round him spread, with shade 

That; might be deemed forbidding, did not there 

All generous feelings flourish and rejoice ; 

Forbearance, charity in deed and thought, 

And resolution competent to take 

Out of the bosom of simplicity 

All that her holy customs recommend, 

And the best ages of the world prescribe. 

— Preaching, administering, in every work 

Of his sublime vocation, in the walks 

Of worldly intercourse 'twixt man and man. 

And in his humble dwelling, he appears 

A Laborer, with moral virtue girt. 

With spiritual graces, like a glory, crowned." 

"Doubt can be none," the Pastor said, "for wiioin 
This Portraiture is sketched. The Great, the Good, 
The Well-beloved, the Fortunate, the Wise, 
These Titles Emperors and Chiefs have borne, 
Honor assumed or given : and Him, the Wonderfui 
Our simple Shepherds, speaking from the herrt. 
Deservedly have styled. From his Abode 



221 woiiDS worth's poems. 

[n a dependent Chapelry, that lies 

Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild, 

Which in his soul he lovingly embraced, — 

And, having once espoused, would never quit , 

Hither, ere long, that lowly, great, good Man 

Will be conveyed. An unelaborate Stone 

May cover him ; and by its help, perchance, 

A century shall hear his name pronounced. 

With images attendant on the sound ; 

Then, shall the slowly gathering twilight close 

In utter night ; and of his course remain 

No cognizable vestiges, no more 

Than of this breath, which shapes itself in words 

To speak of him, and instantly dissolves. 

— Noise is there not enough in doleful war, 
But that the heaven-born poet must stand forth, 
And lend the echoes of his sacred shell. 

To multiply and aggravate the din ? 

Pangs are there not enough in hopeless love — 

And, in requited passion, all too much 

Of turbulence, anxiety, and fear — 

But that the Minstrel of the rural shade 

Must tune his pipe insidiously to nurse 

The perturbation in the suifering breast, 

And propagate its kind, far as he may ? 

— Ah, who (and with such rapture as befits 
The hallowed theme) will rise and celebrate 
Tiie good Man's deeds and purposes; retrace 
His struggles, his discomfiture deplore, 

His triumphs hail, and glorify his end ? 

That Virtue, like the fumes and vapory clouds 

Tlirough Fancy's heat redounding in the brain. 

And like the soft infections of the heart, 

By charm of measured words may spread o'er field. 

Hamlet, and town; and Piety survive 



Wordsworth's I'OEiMs, 22i. 

Upon the lips of Men in hall or bower; 

Not for reproof, but high and warm delight, 

And grave encouragement, by song insi)ired 

— Vain thought! but wherefore murmur or repine? 

The memory of the just survives in Heaven: 

And, without sorrow, will this ground receive 

That venerable clay. Meanwhili the best 

Of what it holds confines us to degrees 

In excellence less difficult to reach. 

And milder worth: nor need we travel far 

From those to whom our last regards were paid, 

For such example. 

" Almost at the root 
Of that tall Pine, the shadow of whose bare 
And slender stem, while here I sit at eve, 
Ofl stretches tow'rds me, like a long straight path 
Traced faintly in the green-sward ; there, beneath 
A plain blue Stone, a gentle Dalesman lies, 
From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn 
The precious gift of hearing. He grew up 
From year to year, in loneliness of soul ; 
And this deep mountain Valley was to him 
Soundless, witl^all its streams. The bird of dawB 
Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep 
With startling summons ; not for his delight 
The vernal cuckoo shouted ; not for him 
Murmured the laboring bee. When stormy winds 
Were working the broad bosom of the lake 
Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves. 
Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud 
Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags, 
The agitated scene before his eye 
Was silent as a picture : evermore 
Were aP things silent, wheresoe'ei he moved 



2.'2{) Wordsworth's poems. 

Yet, by the solace of his own pure thought" 

Upheld, he duteously pursued the round 

Of rural labors ; the steep mountain-side 

Ascended with his staff and faithful dog ; 

The plough he guided, and the scythe he su-mvim? ; 

And the ripe corn before his sickle fell 

Among the jocund reapers. For himself, 

All watchful and industrious as he was. 

He wrought not ; neither field nor flock he owned 

No wish for wealth had place within his mind ; 

Nor husband's love, nor farther's hope or care. 

Though born a younger Brother, need was none 

That from the floor of his paternal home 

He should depart, to plant himself anew. 

And when, mature in manhood, he beheld 

His Parents laid in eart!-, no loss ensued 

Of rights to him ; but he remained well pleased, 

By the pure bond of independent love 

An inmate of a second family, 

The fellow-laborer and friend of him 

To whom the small inheritance had fallen. 

— Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight 

That pressed upon his Brother's house, for books 

Were ready comrades whom he could not tire, — 

Of whose society the blameless Man 

Was never satiate. Their ftimiliar voice, 

Even to old age, with unabated charm 

Beguiled his leisure hours, refreshed his thouglitn 

Beyond its nat iral elevation raised 

His introverted spirit ; and bestowed 

Upon his life an outward dignity 

Vvliich all acknowledged. The dark winter niglit, 

'I'he stormy day. Had each its own resource ; 

SoniT f'f the muses, sage historic tale, 

isciL'iico severe, or word of Holy Writ 



wordswoPvTh's poems. 221 

Announcing immortality ana joy 

'J'o the assembled spirits of the jnst, 

From imperfection and decay secure. 

— Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field, 
To no perverse suspicion he gave way, 

No languor, peevishness, nor vain complaint: 
And they, who were about him, did not fail 
In reverence, or in courtesy ; they prized 
His gentle manners ; and his peaceful smiles, 
The gleams of his slow-varying countenance, 
Were met with answering sympathy and love. 

" At length, when sixty years and five were told, 

A slow disease insensibly consumed 

The powers of nature : and a few short steps 

Of friends and kindred bore him from his home 

(Yon Cottage shaded by the woody crags) 

To the profounder stillness of the grave. 

— Nor was his funeral denied the grace 

Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful grief; 
Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude. 
And now that monumental Stone preserves 
His name, and unambitiously relates 
EIov long, and by what kindly outward aids, 
And in what pure contentedness of mind. 
The sad privation was by him endured. 

— And yon tall Pine-tree whose composing sound 
Was wasted on the good Man's living ear, 

Hath now its own peculiar sanctity ; 

And, at the touch of every wandering breeze. 

Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave. 

"Soul-cheering Light, most bountiful of Things! 
Guide of our way, mysterious Comforter 



228 WORLtS WORTH S POEMS. 

Whose sacred influence, spread through earth ar^C 

heaven, 
We all too thanklessly participate, 
Thy gifts were utterly withheld from Him 
Whose place of rest is near yon ivied Porch. 
Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he complained ; 
Ask of the channelled rivers if they held 
A safer, easier, more determined course. 
What terror doth it strike into the mind 
To think of One, who cannot see, advancing 
Toward some precipice's airy brink ! 
But, timely warned. He would h ive stayed his steps ; 
Protected, say enlightened, by his ear, 
And on the very edge of vacancy 
Not more endangered than a Man whose eye 
Beholds the gulf beneath. No floweret blooms 
Throughout the lofty range of these rough hills, 
Or in the woods, that could from him conceal 
Its birth-place ; none whose figure did not live 
Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth 
Enriched with knowledge his industrious mind; 
The ocean paid him tribute from the stores 
Lodged in her bosom ; and, by science led, 
His genius mounted to the plains of Heaven. 
— Methinks I see him — how his eye-balls rolled 
Beneath his ample brow, in darkness paired, — 
But each instinct with spirit : and the frame 
Of the whole countenance alive with thought, 
F'ancy, and understanding ; while the voice 
Discoursed of natural or moral truth 
With eloquence, and such authentic power, 
That, in his presence, humbler knowledge stood 
Abashed, and tender pity overawed." 

A n/tble, and, to unreflecting minds. 



AVORDSAVORTH S POEMS. '^'d'A 

A marvellous spectacle," the Wanderer said, 

"Beings like these present! But proof abounds 

Upon the earth, that faculties, which seein 

Extinguished, do not, therefore^ cease to be. 

And to the mind among her powers of sense 

This transfer is permitted, — not alone 

That the bereft their recompense may win ; 

But for remoter purposes of love 

And charity ; nor last nor least for this. 

That to the imagination may be given 

A type and shadow of an awful truth ; 

How, likewise, under sufferance divine. 

Darkness is banished from the realms of Death, 

By man's imperishable spirit, quelled. 

Unto tlie men who see not as we see 

Futurity was thought, in ancient times. 

To be laid open, and they prophesied. 

And know we not that from the blind have flowed 

The highest, holiest, raptures of the lyre ; 

And wisdom married to immortal verse?" 

Among the humbler Worthies, at our feet 
Lying insensible to human praise, 
Love, or regret, — whose lineaments would next 
Have been portrayed, I guess not ! but it chanced 
That, near the quiet church-yard where we sate, 
A Team of horses, with a ponderous freight 
Pressing behind, adown a rugged slope. 
Whose sharp descent confounded their arrav, 
Came at that moment, ringing noisily. 

"Here," said the Pastor, "do we muse, and miMun 
Th^ waste of death ; and lo ! the giant Oak 
Stretched on his bier — that massy timber wain; 
Nor fail to note the M\n who guides the team-" 
20 



330 wordswor.th's pokms. 

He was a Peasant of the lowest class : 
Gray locks profusely round his temples hung" 
In clustering curls, like ivy, which the oite 
Of Winter cannot thin; the fresh air lodged 
Within his cheek, as light within a cloud ; 
And he returned our greeting with a smile. 
When he had passed, the Solitary spake : 
— " A Man he seems of cheerful yesterdays 
And confident to-morrows, — with a face 
Not worldly-minded, for it bears too much 
Of Nature's impress, gayety and health, 
Freedom and hope ; but keen, withal, and shrewd. 
His gestures note, — and hark ! his tones of voice 
Are all vivacious as his mien and looks." 

The Pastor answered: — "You have read him well 

Year after year is added to his store 

With silent increase : summers, winters — past, . 

Past or to come ; yea, boldly might I say. 

Ten summers and ten winters of a space 

That lies beyond life's ordinary bounds, 

Upon his sprightly vigor cannot fix 

The obligation of an anxious mind, 

A pride in having, or a fear to lose ; 

Possessed like outskirts of some large Domain, 

By any one more thought of than by him 

Who holds the land in fee, its careless Lord ! 

--Yet is the creature rational — endowed 

With foresight; hears, too, every Sabbath day. 

The Christian promise with attentive ear 

Nor will, I trust, the Majesty of Heaven 

Reject the incense offered up by him, 

Though of the kind which beasts and birds jresenl 

In grove or pasture ; cheerfulness of soul, 

From trepidation and repining free. 



Wordsworth's poems. 131 

How many scrupulous worshippers fall down 
Upon their knees, and daily homage pay 
Less worthy, less religious even, than his ! 

"This qualified respect, the Old Man's due, 

Is paid without reluctance ; but in truth, 

(Said the good Vicar with a fond half-smile,) 

"I feel at times a motion of despite 

Towrd's One, whose bold contrivances and skill, 

As you have seen, bear such conspicuous part 

In works of havoc ; taking from these vales, 

One after one, their prondest ornaments. 

Full oft his doings leave me to deplore 

Tall ash-tree sown by winds, by vapors nursed, 

In the dry crannies of the pendent rocks ; 

Light birch aloft upon the horizon's edge, 

A veil of glory for the ascending moon ; 

And oak whose roots by noontide dew were damped, 

And on whose forehead inaccessible 

The raven lodged in safety. Many a Ship 

Launched into Morecamb Bay, to him hath owed 

Her strong knee-timbers, and the mast that bears 

The loftiest of her pendants; He, from Park 

Or Forest, fetched the enormous axle-tree 

That whirls (how slow itself!) ten thousand spindlea 

And the vast engine laboring in the mine, 

Content with meaner prowess, must have lacked 

The trunk and body of its marvellous strength, 

If his undaunted enterprise had failed 

Among the mountain coves. 

" Yon household Fir, 
A guardian planted to fence off the blast, 
But towering high the roof above, as if 
Its humble destination were fornfot ; 



232 Wordsworth's poems. 

That Sycamore, which annually holds 

Within its shade, as in a stately tent 

On all sides open to the fanning breeze, 

A grave assemblage, seated while they shenr 

The fleece-encumbered flock; — the Joyful EL?.f, 

Around whose trunk the Maidens dance in May ; — 

And the Lord's Oak; — would plead their scw^ral 

rights 
In vain, if He were master of their fate ; 
His sentence to the axe would doom them ali. 
■ — But, green in age, and lusty as he is. 
And promising to keep his hold on earth 
Less, as might seem, in rivalship with men 
Than with the forest's more enduring growth, 
His own appointed hour will come at last; 
And, like the haughty Spoilers of the word, 
This keen Destroyer, in his turn, must fall. 



" NoAv from tho living pass we once again : 

From Age," the Priest continued, " turn your thouirhts 

From Age, that often unlamented drops, 

And mark that daisied hillock, three spans long ! 

— Seven lusty Sons sate daily round the board 

Of Gold-rill side ; and, when the hope had ceased 

Of other progeny, a Daughter then 

Was given, the •crowning bounty of the whole ; 

And so acknowledged with a tremulous joy 

Felt to the centre of that heavenly calm 

With which by nature every Mother's Soul 

Is stricken, in the moment when her throes 

Are ended, and her ears have heard the cry 

Which tells her that a living Child is born, — 

\nd she lies conscious in a blissful rest. 

That the dread storm is weathered by them both. 



Wordsworth's poems. 233 

•* The Father — Him at this unlooked-for gifl 
A bolder transport seizes. From the side 
Of his bright heath, and from his open door, 
Day after day the gladness is diffused 
To all that come, and almost all that pass ; 
Iiuited, summoned, to partake the cheer 
Spread on the never-empty board, and drink 
Health and good wishes to his new-born Girl, 
From cups replenished by his joyous hand. 
- Those seven fair brothers variously wore moved 
Each by the thoughts best suited to his years: 
But most of all, and with most thankful mind. 
The hoary Grandsire felt himself enriched ; 
A happiness that ebbed not, but remained 
To fill the total measure of the soul ! 

— From the low tenement, his own abode, 
Whither, as to a little private cell, 

He had withdrawn from bustle, care, and noise, 
To spend the Sabbath of old age in peace, 
Once every day he duteously repaired 
To rock the cradle of the slumbering Babe: 
For in that female Infant's name he heard 
The silent name of his departed Wife ; 
Heart-stirring music ! hourly heard that name ; 
Full blest he was, ' Aiother Margaret Green,' 
Oft did he say, ' was come to Gold-rill side.' 

— Oh ! pang unthought of, as the precious boon 
Itself had been unlooked for ; — oh ! dire stroke 
Of desolating anguish for them all ! 

— Just as the Child could totter on the floor, 
And, by some friendly finger's help upstayed, 
Range round the garden walk, while She perchanci 
Was catching at some novelty of Spring, 
Ground-flower, or glossy insect from its cell 
Drawn by the sunshine — at that hopeful season 

20* 



'234 Wordsworth's poems. 

The winds of March, smiting insidiously, 
Raised in the tender passage of the throat 
Viewless obstruction; whence — all unforewarned, 
The Household lost their pride and soul's delight. 
— But Time hath power to soften all regrets, 
And prayer and thought can bring to worst distreaa 
Due resignation. Therefore, though some tears 
Fail not to spring from either Parent's eye 
Oft as they hear of sorrow like their own, 
Yet this departed Little-one, too long 
The innocent trouoler of their quiet, sleeps 
In what may now be called a peaceful grave. 

"On a bright day, the brightest of the year, 
These mountains echoed with an unknown sound, 
A volley, thrice repeated o'er the Corse 
Let down into the hollow of that Grave, 
Whose shelving sides are red with naked mould. 
Ye Rains of April, duly wet this earth ! 
Spare, burning Sun of Midsummer, these sods, 
That they may knit together, and therewith 
Our thoughts unite in kindred quietness-! 
Nor so the Valley shall forget her loss, 
Dear Youth, by young and old alike beloved, 
To me as precious as my own ! — Green herbs 
May creep (I wish that they would softly creep) 
Over thy last abode, and we may pass 
Reminded less imperiously of thee; — 
The ridge itself may sink into the breast 
Of earth, the great abyss, and be no more ; 
Yet shall not thy remembrance leave our hearts, 
Thy image disappear! 

" The mountain Ash 
No eye can overlook, when 'mid a grove 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 235 

Of yet unfaded trees she lifts her head 

Decked with aiitiiinnal berries, that outshine 

Spring's richest blossoms ; and ye may have markeu, 

By a brook side or solitary tarn, 

Hew she her station doth adorn; — the pool 

Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks 

Arc brightened round her. In his native Vale 

Such and so glorious did this Youth appear ; 

A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts 

By his ingenious beauty, by the gleam 

Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow. 

By all the graces with which Nature's hand 

Had lavishly arrayed him. As old Bards 

Tell in their idle songs of wandering Gods, 

Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form ; 

Yet, like the sweet-breathed violet of the shade, 

Discovered in their own despite to sense 

Of Mortals (if such fables without blame 

May find chance-mention on this sacred ground) 

So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise. 

And through the impediment of rural cares, 

In him revealed a Scholar's genius shone ; 

And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight, 

In him the spirit of a Hero w^alked 

Our unpretending valley. — How the coit 

Whizzed from the Stripling's arm ! If touched by him, 

The inglorious foot-ball mounted to the pitch 

Of the lark's flight, — or shaped a rainbow curve. 

Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field ! 

The indefatigable fox had learned 

To dread his perseverance in the chase. 

With admiration would he lift his eyes 

To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand 

Was loth to assault the majesty he loved : 

Else had the strongest fastnessess proved weak 



236 Wordsworth's poems. 

To guard the royal brood. The sailing- glead, 
The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe, 
Tlie sportive sea-gull dancing with the waves, 
And cautious water-fowl, from distant climes, 
Fixed at their seat, the centre of the Mere, 
Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim. 

" From Gallia's coast a Tyrant hurled his threats ; 

Our Country marked the preparation vast 

Of hostile Forces ; and she called — with voice 

That filled her plains, that reached her utmost shores, 

And in remotest vales was heard — to Arms ! 

— Then, for the first time, here you might have seen 

The Shepherd's gray to martial scarlet changed, 

That flashed uncouthly through the woods and fielda 

Ten hardy Striplings, all in bright attire, 

And graced Avith shining weapons, weekly marched. 

From this lone valley, to a central spot, 

Where, in assemblage with the Flower and Choice 

Of the surrounding district, they might learn 

The rudiments of war ; ten — hardy, strong, 

And valiant ; but young Oswald, like a Chief 

And yet a modest Comrade, led them forth 

From their shy solitude, to face the world. 

With a gay confidence and seemly pride ; 

Measuring the soil beneath their happy feet 

Like Youths released from labor, and yet bound 

To most laborious service, though to them 

A festival of unencumbered ease ; 

The inner spirit keeping holiday, 

Like vernal ground to sabbath sunshine left. 

'* Oft have I marked him, at some leisure hour. 
Stretched on the grass or seated in the shade 
Among his Fellows, while an ample Map 



Wordsworth's poems. 2^57 

Before their eyes la}- carefully outspread, 

From which the gallant Teacher would discourse, 

Now pointing this way, and now that. — ' Here flows, 

Thus would he say, ' the Rhine, that ftimous Sti earn ! 

Eastward, the Danube tow'rd this inland sea, 

A mightier river, winds from realm to realm; — 

And, like a serpent, shows his glittering back 

Bespotted with innumerable isles : 

Here reigns the Russian, there the Turk; observe 

His capital city i ' — Thence — along a tract 

Of livelier interest to his hopes and fears 

His finger moved, distinguishing the spots 

Where wide-spread conflict then most fiercely rag.- d 

Nor left unstigmatized those fatal Fields 

On which the Sons of mighty Germany 

Were taught a base submission. — 'Here behold 

A nobler race, the Switzers, and their Land ; 

Vales deeper far than these of ours, huge woods, 

And mountains white with everlasting snow ! ' 

— And, surely, he, that spake with kindling brow 

Was a true Patriot, hopeful as the best 

Of that young Peasantry, who, in our days. 

Have fought and perished for Helvetia's rights, — 

Ah, not in vain ! — or those who, in old time, 

For work of happier issue, to the side 

Of Tell came trooping from a thousand huts, 

When he had risen alone ! No braver Youth 

Descended from Judean heights, to march 

With righteous Joshua ; or appeared in arms 

When grove was felled, and altar was cast down, 

And Gideon blew the trumpet, soul-inflamed, 

And strong in hatred of idolatry." 

This spoken, from his seat the Pastor rose, 
And moved towards the grave ; instinctively 



23H Wordsworth's poem" 

His steps we followed ; and my voice exclaimed, 
"Power to the Oppressors of the world is ^iven, 
A might of which they dream not. Oh ! the cursp 
To be the Awakener of divinest thoughts, 
Father and Founder of exalted deeds, 
And to whole nations bound in servile straits 
The liberal Donor of capacities 
More than heroic ! this to be, nor yet 
Have sense of one connatural wish, nor yet 
Deserve the least return of human thanks ; 
Winning no recompense but deadly hate 
With pity mixed, astonishment with scorn ! " 

When these involuntary words had ceased. 
The Pastor said, " So Providence is served ; 
The forked weapon of the skies can send 
Illumination into deep, dark Holds, 
Which the mild sunbeam hath not power to pierce. 
Why do ye quake, intimidated Thrones ? 
For, not unconscious of the mighty debt 
Which to outrageous Wrong the Sufferer owes, 
Europe, through all her habitable seats, 
Is thirsting for their overthrow, who still 
Exist, as pagan Temples stood of old. 
By very horror of their impious rites 
Preserved ; are suffered to extend their pride. 
Like Cedars on the top of Lebanon 
Darkening the sun. — But less impatient thoughts, 
x^nd love ' all hoping and expecting all,' 
This hallowed Grave demands, where rests in leace 
A humble Champion of the better Cause; 
A Peasant-youth, so call him, for he asked 
.No higher name; in whom our Country showed, 
As in a favorite Son, most beautiful. 
In spite of vice, and misery, and disease 



Wordsworth's poems. •i'J:« 

Spread with the spreading of her wealthy arts, 
England, the ancient and the free, appeared, 
In him to stand before my swimming- eyes, 
Unconquerably virtuous and secure. 

— No more of tiiis, lest I oli'end his dust • 
Short was his life, and a brief tale remains. 

*' One suuuner's day — a day of annual pomp 
And solemn chase — from morn to sultry noon 
His steps had followed, fleetest of the fleet, 
The red-deer driven along its native heights 
With cry of hound and horn ; and, from that toil 
Returned with sinews weakened and relaxed, 
This generous Youth, too neg-ligent of self, 
Plunged — 'mid a gay and busy throng convened 
To wash the fleeces of his Father's flock — 
Into the chilling flood. 

" Convulsions dire 
Seized him, tliat self-same night; and through the .-;»!, ;e 
Of twelve ensuing days his frame was wrenched. 
Till nature rested from her work in death. 

— To him, thus snatched away, his Comrades paid 
A soldier's honors. At his funeral hour 

Bright was the sun, the sky a cloudless blue — 

A golden lustre slept upon the hills ; 

And if by chance a Stranger, wandering there. 

From some commanding eminence had looked 

Down on this spot, well pleased would he have seen 

A glittering Spectacle ; but every face 

Was pallid, — seldom hath that eye been moist 

With tears, that wept not then ; nor were the few 

Who from their Dwellings came not forth to joir* 

In this sad service, less disturbed than we. 

They st-irted at the tributary peal 



240 Wordsworth's poems. 

Of instantaneous thunder, which announced 
Through the still air the closing of the Grave; 
And distant mountains echoed with a sound 
Of lamentation, never heard before ! " 

The Pastor ceased. — My venerable Friend 
Victoriously upraised his clear bright eye ; 
And, when that eulogy was ended, stood 
Enrapt, — as if his inward sense perceived 
The prolongation of some still response. 
Sent by the ancient Soul of this wide Land 
The Spirit of its mountains and its seas. 
Its cities, temples, fields, its awful power, 
Its rights and virtues — by that Deity 
Descending, and supporting his pure heart 
With patriotic confidence and joy. 
And, at the last of these memorial words, 
The pining Solitary turned aside, 
Whether through manly instinct to conceal 
Tender emotions spreading from the heart 
To his worn cheek; or with uneasy shame 
For those cold humors of habitual spleen, 
That fondly seeking in dispraise of Man 
Solace and self-excuse, had somtimes urged 
To self-abuse a not ineloquent tongue. 
— Right tow'rd the sacred Edifice his steps 
Had been directed ; and we saw him now 
Intent upon a monumental Stone, 
Whose uncouth Form was grafted on the wall, 
Or rather seemed to have grown into the side 
Of the rude Pile ; as oft-times trunks of trees, 
Where Nature works in wild and craggy spoto^ 
Are seen incorporate with the living rock — 
To endure for aye. The Vicar, taking note 
Of his employment, with a courteous siuile 



W OK !)H worth's FOEMS. 241 

Exclaimed. " The sagest Antiquarian's eye 
That task would foil;" then, letting fall his voice 
While h( advanced, thus spake : " Tradition tells 
That, in Eliza's golden days, a Knight 
Came on a war-horse sumptuously attired, 
And fixed his home in this sequestered Vale. 
'TIS left untold if here he first drew breath, 
Or as a Stranger reached this deep recess. 
Unknowing and unknown. A pleasing thouglit 
I sometimes entertain, that, haply bound 
To Scotland's court in service of his Queen, 
Or sent on mission to some northern Chief 
Of England's Realm, this Vale he might have seen 
With transient observation ; and thence caught 
An Image fair, which, brightening in his soul 
When joy of war aud pride of Chivalry 
Languished beneath accumulated years. 
Had power to draw him from the world — resolved 
To make that paradise his chosen home 
To which his peaceful Fancy oft had turned. 
— Vague thoughts are these; but, if belief may res( 
Upon unwritten story fondly traced 
From sire to son, in this obscure Retreat 
The Knight arrived, with pomp of spear and shield, 
And borne upon a Charger covered o'er 
With gilded housings. And the lofty Steed — 
His sole companion, and his faithful friend. 
Whom he, in gratitude, let loose to range 
In fertile pasture — was beheld with eyrTs 
Of admiration and delightful awe. 
By those untravelled Dalesmen. With .ess pride, 
Yet free from touch of envious discontent. 
They saw a Mansion at his bidding rise, 
Like a bright star, amid the lowly band 
Of their rude Homesteads. Here the Warrior dwelt 
21 



04-2 WORDS worth's poems. 

And, in that Mansion, Children of liis own. 

Or Kindred, gathered round him. As a Tree 

That falls and dissappei#e, the House is gone ; 

And, through improvidence or want of love 

For ancient worth and honorable things, 

The spear and shield are vanished, which the Knight 

Hung in his rustic Hall. One ivied arch 

Myself have seen, a gateway, last remains 

Of that Foundation in domestic care 

Raised by his hands. And now no trace is left 

Of the mild-hearted Champion, save this Stone, 

Faithless memorial ! and his family name 

Borne by yon clustering cottages, that sprang 

From out the ruins of his stately lodge : 

These, and the name and title at full length, — 

vSiR Alfred Irthing, v/ith appropriate words 

Accompanied, still extant, in a wreath 

Or posy — girding round the several fronts 

Of three clear-sounding and harmonious bells, 

That in the steeple hang, his pious gift." 

" So fails, so languishes, grows dim, and dies," 

The gray-haired Wanderer pensively exclaimed, 

" All that this World is proud of From their spliei ea 

The stars of human glory are cast down ; 

Perish the roses and the flowers of Kings, 

I^rinces, and Emperors, and the crowns and palms 

Of all the Mighty, withered and consumed ! 

Nor is power given to lowliest Innocence 

Long to protect her own. The Man himself 

Departs ; and soon is spent the Line of those 

Who, in the bodily image, in the mind, 

In heart or soul, in station or pursuit. 

Did most resemble him. Degrees and Ranks. 

Fraternities and Orders — heaping high 



WORDSWCRTH's POKMS. 243 

New wealth upon the burthen of the old, 

And placing trust in privi!eo-e confirmed 

And reconfirmed — are scoffed at with a smile 

Of greedy foretaste, from the secret stand 

Of Desolation, aimed : to slow decline 

These yield, and these to sudden overthrow ; 

Their virtue, service, happiness, and state. 

Expire ; and Nature's pleasant robe of green, 

Humanity's appointed shroud, enwraps 

Their monuments and their memory. The vasi FramQ 

Of social JNature changes evermore, 

Her organs and her members with decay 

Restless, and restless generation, powers 

And functions dying and produced at need, — 

And by this law the mighty Whole subsists : 

With an ascent and progress in the main ; 

Yet, oh ! how disproportioned to the hopes 

And expectations of self-flattering minds! 

— The courteous Knight, whose bones are here interrt'd^ 

Lived in an age conspicuous as our own 

For strife and ferment in the minds of men ; 

Whence altercation, in the forms of things, 

Various and vast. A memorable age ! 

Which did to him assign a pensive lot — 

To linger 'mid the last of those bright Clouds, 

That, on the steady breeze of honor, sailed 

In long procession calm and beautiful. 

He who had seen his own bright Order fade, 

And its devotion gradually decline, 

(While War, relinquishing the lance and shield. 

Her temper changed, and bowed to other laws) 

Had also witnessed, in his morn of life. 

That violent Commotion, which o'erthrew, 

In town, and city, and sequestered glen. 

Altar, and Cross, and Church of solenm roof. 



244 wordswokth's poems. 

And old religious House — Pile after Pile; 

And shook the Tenants out into the fields. 

Like wild Beasts without home ! Their hour wixst coaio 

But why no softening thought of gratitude, 

No just remembrance, scruple, or wise doubt ? 

Benevolence is mild ; nor borrows help. 

Save at worst need, from bold impetuous force, 

Fitliest allied to anger and revenge. 

But Human-kind rejoices in the might 

Of Mutability, and airy Hopes, 

Dancing around her, hinder and disturb 

Those meditations of the soul that feed 

The retrospective Virtues. Festive songs 

Break from the maddened Nations at the sight 

Of sudden overthrow ; and cold neglect 

Is the sure consequence of slow decay. 

— Even," said the Wanderer, " as that courteous Knight, 
Bound by his vow to labor for redress 

Of all Avho suffer wrong, and to enact 
By sword and lance the law of gentleness, 
(If I may venture of myself to speak. 
Trusting that not incongruously I blend 
Low things with lofty) I too shall be doomed 
To outlive the kindly use and fair esteem 
Of the poor calling which my Youth embraced 
With no unworthy prospect. But enough ; 

— Thoughts crowd upon me — and 'twere seemhei 

now 
To stop, and yield our gracious Teacher thanki 
For the pathetic Records which his voice 
Hath here delivered ; words of heartfelt truth, 
Tending to patience when AtHiction strikes ; 
To hope and love ; to confident repose 
fn God ; and reverence for the dust of Man " 



THE EXCURSION. 



BOOK THE EIGHTH, 

THE PARSONAGE. 

ARGUMENT. 

Pastor's apprehensions that he might have detained his Auditors too 
long — Invitation to his House — Solitary disinclined to comply — 
Rallies the Wanderer ; and somewhat playfully draws a comparison 
between his itinerant profession and that of the Knight-errant, which 
leads to Wanderer's giving an account of changes in the Country 
from the manufacturing spirit — Favorable effects — The other side 
of the picture, and chiefly as it has affected the humbler classes- 
Wanderer asserts the hollowness of all national grandeur if unsup- 
ported by moral worth — Gives Instances — Physical science unable 
to support itself — Lamentations over an excess of manufacturing 
industry among the humbler Classes of Society — Picture of a Cliild 
employed in a Cotton-mill — Ignorance and degradation of C'tildrea 
among the agricultural Population reviewed — Conversation broken 
of by a renewed Invitation from the Pastor — Path leading to hia 
House — Its appearance described — His Daughter — His Wife — 
Ilis Son (a Boy) enters 'vilh his Companion — Their happy appe.'vr- 
ance — The Wanderer how affected by the sight of tliem. 

The pensive Sceptic of the lonely Vale 
To those acknowledgments subscribed his own, 
With a sedate compliance, which the Priest 
Failed not to notice, inly pleased, and said, 
" If Ye, by whom invited I commenced 
2J* 



246 Wordsworth's pokms. 

These narratives of calm and humble life, 
Be satisfied, 'tis well, — the end is gained; 
And, in return for sympathy bestowed 
And patient listening, thanks accept from me. 

— Life, Death, Eternity ! momentous themes 

Are they — and might demand a Seraph's tongue. 
Were they not equal to their own support ; 
And therefore no incompetence of mine 
Could do them wrong. The universal forms 
Of human nature, in a Spot like this. 
Present themselves at once to all Men's view : 
Ye wished for act and circumstance, that make 
The Individual known and understood ; 
And such as my best judgment could select 
From what the place afforded have been given , 
Though apprehensions crossed me that my zt al 
To his might well be linked, who unlocks 
A Cabinet with gems or pictures stored. 
And draws them forth — soliciting regard 
To this, and this, as worthier than the last. 
Till the Spectator, who awhile was pleased 
More than the Exhibitor himself, becomes 
Weary and faint, and longs to be released. 

— But let us hence! my Dwelling is in sight, 
And there — " 

At this the Solitary shrunk 
With backward will ; but wanting not address 
That inward n)otion to disguise, he said 
To his Compatriot, smiling as he spake ; 

— "The peaceful Remains of this good Knig!;i 
Would be disturbed, I fear, with wrathful scorn, 
If consciousnes!3 could reach him M^here he ]\<s^ 
That One, albeit of these degenerate times, 
Deploring changes past, or dreadingf chan.o'f 



"NVORI-tSUOnTH.S I'OKMS. '217 

Foreseen, had dared to couple, even in thought, 
The fine Vocation of the sword and lance 
With the gross aims and body-bendino- toil 
Of a poor Brotherhood uho walk the earth 
Pitied, and where they are not known, despised. 

— Yet, by the good Knight's leave the two Estates 
Are graced with some resemblance. Errant those, 
Exiles and Wanderers — and tiie likj are these; 
Who, with their burthen, traverse iiill and dale, 
Carrying relief for Nature's simple wants. 

— What though no higher recompense they seek 
Than honest maintenance, by irksome toil 

Full oft procured, yet Such may claim respect, 
Among the Intelligent, for what this course 
Enables them to be, and to perform. 
Their tardy steps give leisure to observe. 
While solitude permits the mind to feel ; 
Instructs and prompts her to supply defects 
By the division of her inward self, 
For grateful converse : and to these poor Men 
(As I have heard you boast with honest pride) 
Nature is bountiful, where'er they go ; 
Kind Nature's various wealth is all their own. 
Versed in the characters of men ; and bound. 
By ties of daily interest, to maintain 
Conciliatory manners and smooth speech ; 
Such have been, and still are in their degree, 
Examples efficacious to refine 
Rude intercourse; apt Agents to expel. 
By importation of unlooked-for Arts, 
Barbarian torpor, and blind prejudice; 
Raising, through just gradation, savage life 
To rustic, and the rustic to urbane. 

— Within their moving magazines is lodged 
Power that comes forth to quicken and exal 



248 Wordsworth's poeivts. 

Aifoctions seated in the Mother's breast, 
And in the Lover's fancy ; and to feed 
The sober sympathies of long-tried Friends. 
— By these Itine'-ants, as experienced Men, 
Counsel is given ; contention they appease 
With gentle language; in remotest Wilds, 
Tears wipe away, and pleasant tidings bring ; 
Could the proud quest of Chivalry do more r " 

" Happy," rejoined the Wanderer, " they who gp>iil 

A panegyric from your generous tongue ! 

But, if to these Wayfarers once pertained 

Aught of romantic interest, 'tis gone ; 

Their purer service, in this realm at least, 

Is past for ever. — An inventive Age 

Has wrought, if not with speed of magic, yet 

To most strange issues. I have lived to mark 

A new and unforeseen Creation rise 

From out the labors of a peaceful Land, 

Wielding her potent Enginery to frame 

And to produce, with appetite as keen 

Aa that of War, which rests not night or day 

Industrious to destroy ! With fruitless pains 

Might one like me noiv visit many a tract 

Which, in his youth, he trod, and trod agaiii, 

A lone Pedestrian with a scanty freight, 

Wished for, or welcome, wheresoe'er he caiMC, 

Among the Tenantry of Thorpe and Vill ; 

Or straggling Burgh, of ancient charter ])rou(1. 

And dignified by battlemerts and towers 

Of some stern Castle, mouldering on the brow 

Of a green hill or bank of rugged stream. 

The foot-path faintly marked, the horse-track wile 

And formidable length of plashy lane, 

(Prized avenues ere others had been shaood 



■Wordsworth's pokms. 24J\ 

Or easier links connecting place with place) 

Have vanished, — swallowed up by stately i-juds 

Easy and bold, that penetrate the o-loom 

Of Britain's farthest Glens. The Earth has lent 

Her waters. Air her breezes ; and the Sail 

Of traffic glides with ceaseless "interchano-n. 

Glistening along the low and woody dale, 

Or on the naked mountain's ,ofty side. 

Meanwhile, at social Industry's command, 

How quick, how vast an increase ! From the germ 

Of some poor Hamlet, rapidly produced 

Here a huge Town, continuous and compp.ct, 

Hiding the face of earth for leagues — and there. 

Where not a Habitation stood before, 

Abodes of men irregularly massed ^ 

Like trees in forests, spread through spacious tracts, 

O'er which the smoke of unremitting fires 

Hangs permanent and plentiful as wreaths 

Of vapor glittering in the morning sun. 

And, wheresoe'er the Traveller turns his 8tep>', 

Hft sees the barren wilderness erased. 

Or disappearing; triumph that proclaims 

How much the mild Directress of the plougii 

Owes to alliance with these new-born Arts ! 

— Hence is the wide Sea peopled, hence tfie Shores 

Of Britain are resorted to by Ships 

Freighted from every climate of the world 

Witli the world's choicest produce. Hence that n\\u\ 

Of Keels that rest within her crowded ports 

Or ride at anchor in her sounds and bays ; 

That animating spectacle of Sails 

Which, through her inland regions, to and fro 

Pass with the respirations of the tide, 

Perpetual, multitudinous ! Finally, 

Hence a dread arm of floatinof Power, a voice 



250 WORDSWdKTIi'ri POEMS. 

Of Thunder, daunting those who would approach 
With hostile purposes the blessed Isle, 
Truth's consecrated residence, the seat 
Impregnable of Liberty and Peace. 

" And yet, O happy Pastor of a Flock 

Faithfully watched, and, by that loving care 

And Heaven's good providence, preserved from taint! 

With You T grieve, when on the darker side 

Of this great change I look ; and there behold 

Such outrage done to Nature as compels 

The indignant Power to justify herself; 

Yea, to avenge her violated rights, 

For England's bane. When soothing darkness sjjrcn.la 

O'er hill and vale," the Wanderer thus expressed 

His recollections, " and the punctual stars, 

While all things else are gathering to their homos. 

Advance, and in the firmament of heaven 

Glitter — but undisturbing, undisturbed; 

As if their silent company were charged 

With peaceful admonitions for the heart 

Of all-beholding Man, earth's thoughtful Lord ; 

Then, in full many a region, once like this 

The assured domain of calm simplicity 

And pensive quiet, an unnatural light 

Prepared for never-resting Labor's eyes, 

Breaks from a many-windowed Fabric huge , 

And at the appointed hour a bell is heard, 

Of harsher ijnport than the Curfew-knoll 

That spake the Norman Conqueror's stern behest — 

A local summons to unceasing toil ! 

Disgorged are now the ministers of day ; 

And, as they issue from the illumined Pile, 

A fresh Band meets them, at the crowded door — 

And in the courts — and where the rnmi)!ing Stream. 



Wordsworth's poems. 25' 

That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels, 
Glares, like a troubled Spirit, in its bed 
Among the rocks below. Men, Maidens, Voutiis, 
Mother, and little Children, Boys and Girls, 
Enter, and each the wonted task resumes 
Within this Temple, where is offered up 
To Gain — the master Idol of the Realm — 
Perpetual sacrifice. Even thus of old 
Our Ancestors, within the still domain 
Of vast Cathedral or Conventual Church, 
Their vigils kept; where tapers day and night 
On the dim altar burned continually, 
In token that the House was evermore 
Watching to God. Religious Men were they ; 
Nor would their Reason, tutored to aspire 
Above this transitory world, allow 
That there should pass a moment of the year, 
When in their land the Almighty Service ceased. 

"Triumph who will in these profaner rites 

Which We, a generation self-extolled. 

As zealously perform ! I cannot share 

TTis proud complacency ; yet I exult. 

Casting reserve away, exult to see 

An Intellectual mastery exercised 

O'er the blind Elements ; a purpose given, 

A perseverance fed ; almost a soul 

fmparted — to brute Matter. I rejoice, 

Measuring the force of those gigantic powers, 

That by the thinking Mind have been compelled 

To serve the will of feeble-bodied Man. 

For with the sense of admiration blends 

The animating hope that time may come 

When, strengthened, yet not dazzled, by the might 

Of tliis dominion over Nature gained, 



252 Wordsworth's poems. 

Men of all lands shall exercise the same 

In due proportion to their Country's need ; 

Learning-, though hte, that all true glory rests, 

All praise, all safety, and all happiness, 

Upon the moral law. Egyptian Tliebes, 

Tyre by the margin of the sounding waves, 

Palmyra central in the Desert, fell ; 

And the Arts died by which they had been raiso... 

— Call Archimedes from his buried Tomb 

Upon the plain of vanished Syracuse, 

And feelingly the Sage shall make report 

How insecure, how baseless in itself, 

Is the Philosophy, whose sway depends 

On mere material instruments ; — how weak 

Those Arts, and high Inventions, if unpropped 

By Virtue. He with sighs of pensive grief, 

Amid his calm abstractions, would admit 

That not the slender privilege is theirs 

To save themselves from blank forgetfulness! " 

When from the Wanderer's lips these words had fallen 

I said, "And, did in truth these vaunted Arts 

Possess such privilege, how could we escape 

Regret and painful sadness, who revere, 

And would preserve as things above all price. 

The old domestic morals of the land, 

Her simple manners, and the stable worth 

That dignified and cheered a low estate ? 

Oh ! where i= now the character of peace, 

Sooricty, and rder, and chaste love. 

And honest dealing, and untainted speech, 

And pure good-will, and hospitable cheer; 

That made the very thought of Country-life 

A thought of refuge, for a Mind detained 

Roluctantly amid the bustling crowd ? 



Wordsworth's poems. ii53 

Where now the beauty of the Sabbatn, kept 

With conscientious reverence, as a day 

By the Aknighty Lawgiver pronounced 

Holy and blest ? and where the winning grace 

Of all the lighter ornaments attached 

To time and season, as the year rolled rou)id ? " 

" Fled ! " was the Wanderer's passionate response, 
"Fled utterly! or only to be traced 
In a few fortunate Retreats like this ; 
Which I behold with trembling, when I think 
What lamentable change, a year — a month — 
May bring ; that Brook converting as it runs 
Into an Instrument of deadly bane 
For those, who, yet untempted to forsake 
The simple occupations of their Sires, 
Drink the pure water of its innocent stream 
With lip almost as pure. Domestic bliss, 
Or call it comfort, by a humbler name,) 
How art thou blighted for the poor Man's heart 
Lo ! in such neighborhood, from morn to eve, 
The Habitations empty ! or perchance 
Tiio Mother left alone, — no helping hand 
To rock the cradle of her peevish babe : 
No daughters round her, busy at the wheel, 
Or in dispatch of each day's little growth 
Of household occupation ; no nice arts 
Of needle-work; no bustle at the fire. 
Where once the dinner was prepared with pride ; 
Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the mind ; 
Nothing to praise, to teach, or to command 
— The Father, if perchance he still retain 
His old employments, goes to field or wood 
No longer led or followed by the Sons ; 
Idlers perchance they were, — but in his sight ; 
22 



'2.14 WORI^SWORTii's POEMS. 

Breathing fresh air, and treading the green earth; 

Till their short holiday of childhood ceased, 

Ne'er to return ! That birthright now is lost. 

Economists will tell you that the State 

Thrives by the forfeiture — unfeeling thought, 

And false as monstrous ! Can the Mother thrive 

By the destruction of her innocent Sons ? 

In whom a premature Necessity 

Blocks out the forms of Nature, preconsumeg 

The reason, famishes the heart, shuts up 

The Infant Being in itself, and makes 

Its very spring a season of decay ! 

The lot is wretched, the condition sad, 

Whether a pining discontent survive. 

And thirst for change ; or habit hath subdued 

The soul deprest, dejected — even to love 

Of her dull tasks, and close captivity. 

— Oh, banish far such wisdom as condemns 

A native Briton to these inward chains, 

Fixed in his soul, so early and so deep, 

Without his own consent, or knowledge, fixed ! 

He is a Slave to whom release comes not. 

And cannot come. The Boy, where'er he turns 

Is still a prisoner ; when the wind is up 

Among the clouds and in the ancient woods ; 

Or when the sun is shining in the east, 

Quiet and calm. Behold him — in the school 

Of his attainments ? no ; but with the air 

Fanning his temples under heaven's blue arch. 

His raiment, whitened o'er with cotton Hakes, 

Or locks of wool, announces whence he comes. 

Ooeping his gait and cowering — his lip pale — 

His respiration quick and audible; 

And scarcely could you fancy that a gleam 

From out those languid eyes could break, or blush 



WORBSWORTH's POEMH. '2.UI 

Mantle upon his cheek. Is this the form, 

[s that the countenance, and sucli the port, 

Of no mean beino^? One who should bo clothed 

With dignity befi'tinjr his proud hope ; 

Who, in his very childhood, should appear 

Sublime — from present purity and joy! 

The limbs increase, but liberty of mind 

Is gone for ever ; this organic Frame, 

So joyful in her motions, is become 

Dull, to the joy of her own motions dead ; 

And even the Touch, so exquissitely poured 

Through the whole body, with a languid Will 

Performs her functions rarely competent 

To impress a vivid feoiing on the mind 

Of what there is delightful in the breeze. 

The gentle visitations of the sun, 

Or lapse of liquid element — by hand, 

Or foot, or lip, in summer's warmth — perceived. 

— Can hope look forward to a manhood raised 

On such foundations?" 

" Hope is none for him ! ** 
The pale Recluse indignantly exclaimed, 
"And tens of thousands suffer wrong as deep. 
Yet be it asked, in justice to our age, 
If there were not, before those Arts appeared, 
These structures rose, commingling old and young, 
And unripe sex with sex, for mutual taint; 
Then, if there Avere not, in our far-famed Isle, 
Multitudes, who from inffincy had breathed 
Air iinimprisoned, and liad lived nt hirge ; 
Yet walked beneath the sun, in human shape, 
As abject, as degraded ? At this day, 
Who shall enumerate the crazy huts 
And tottering hovels, whence do issue forth 
A ragged Offspring, with their own blanched haif 



25G Wordsworth's fokms. 

Crowned like the image of fantastic Fear; 

Or wearing-, we might say, in that white qrrowth 

An ill-adjusted turban, .or defence 

Or fierceness, wreathed around their sun-burnt bro'»v3. 

By savage Nature's unassisted care. 

Naked, and coloured like the soil, the feet 

On which they stand ; as if thereby they drew 

S.-^me nourishment, as Trees do by their roots. 

From Earth, the common Mother of us all. 

Figure and mien, complexion and attire, 

Are leagued to strike dismay, but outstretched h;.ud 

And whining voice denote them Supplicants 

For the least boon that pity can bestow. 

Such on the breast of darksome heaths are found ; 

And with their Parents dwell upon tiie skirts 

Of furze-clad commons ; such are born and reared 

At the mine's mouth, beneath impending rocks, 

Or in the chambers of some natural cave , 

And where their Ancestors erected huts, 

For the convenience of unlawful gain. 

In forest purlieus ; and the like are bred, 

All England through, where nooks and slips of ground. 

Purloined, in times less jealous than our own, 

From the green margin of the public way, 

A residence afford them, 'mid the bloom 

And gayety of cultivated fields. 

— Such (we will hope the lowest in the scale) 
Do I remember oft-times to have seen 

'Mid Buxton's dreary heights. Upon the watch, 
Till the swifl vehicle approach, they stand ; 
Then, following closely with the cloud of dust. 
An imcouth feat exhibit, and are gone 
Heels over head, like Tumblers on a stage. 

— Up from the ground they snatch the conoor coin 
And, on the freight of mciry Passengers 



MO RDS worth's POEMS. 257 

Fixing a steady eye, maintain tlieir speed; 
And spin — and pant — and overhead again, 
Wild Pursuivants ! until their breath is lost, 
Or bounty tires — and every face that smiled 
Encouragement, hath ceased to look that way. 

— But, like the Vagrants of the Gipsey tribe, 
These, bred to little pleasure in themselves. 
Are profitless to others. Turn we then 

To Britons born and bred within the pale 

Of civil polity, and early trained 

To earn, by wholesome labor in the field, 

The bread they eat. A sample should I give 

Of what this stock produces to enrich 

The tender age of life, ye would exclaim, 

' Is this the whistling Plough-boy whose shrill notes 

Impart new gladness to the morning air?' 

Forgive me if I venture to suspect 

That many, sweet to hear of in soft verse, 

Are of no finer frame: — his joints are stiff; 

Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the knees 

Invests the thriving Churl, his legs appear, 

Fellows to those that lustily upheld 

The wooden stools for everlasting use, 

Whereon our Fathers sate. And mark his brow ! 

Under whose shaggy canopy are set 

Two eyes, not dim, but of a healthy stare ; 

Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and strange ; 

Proclaiming boldly that they nev^er drew 

A look or motion of intelligence 

From infant conning of the Christ-cross-row, 

Or puzzling through a Primer, line by line, 

Till perfect mastery crown the pains at last 

— What kindly warmth from touch of fostering hand 
What penetrating power of sun or breeze. 

Shall e'ei dissolve the crust wherein his soul 
22* 



258 



Sleeps, like a caterpillar sheathed in ice ? 

This torpor is no pitiable work 

Of modern ingenuity ; no Town 

Nor crowded City may be taxed with aught 

Of sottish vice or desperate breach of law, 

To which in after years he may be roused. 

— This Boy the Fields produce: his spade and ;i;)C — 
The Carter's whip that on his shoulder rests 

In air high-towering with a boorish pomp, 
The sceptre of his sway ; his Country's name, 
Her equal rights, her churches, and her schools — 
What have they done for him ? And, let me ;:sk. 
For tens of thousands uninformed as he ? 
In brief, what liberty of mind is here?" 

This ardent sally pleased the mild good Man, 
To whom the appeal couched in its closing words 
Was pointedly addressed ; and to the thoughts 
That, in assent or opposition, rose 
Within his mind, he seemed prepared to give 
Prompt utterance ; but, rising from our seat, 
The hospitable Vicar interposed 
With invitation urgently renewed. 

— We followed, taking as he led, a Path 
Along a hedge of hollies, dark and tall. 
Whose flexile boughs, descending with a weight 
Of leafy spray, concealed the stems and roots 
That gave them nourishment. When frosty wind.« 
Howl from the north, what kindly warmth, methoui/iil 
Is here, how grateful this impervious screen! 

Not shaped by simple wearing of the foit 

On rural business passing to and fro, 

Was the commodious Walk ; a careful hand 

Had marked the line, and strewn the surface o'er 

With pure cerulean gravel, from the heioJits 



^ WORDSWORTH S POEMS. -27}'.) 

Fetched by the neig-hboring brook. Across the V;\le 

The stately Fence accompanied oar steps; 

And thus the Pathway, by perennial green 

Guarded and graced, seemed fashioned to unite, 

As by a beautiful yet solemn :hain. 

The Pastor's Mansion with the House of Prayer. 

Like Image of solemnity, conjoined 

With feminine allurement soft and fair, 

The Mansion's self displayed; — a reverend Pile 

With bold projections and recesses deep ; 

Shadowy, yet gay and lightsome as it stood 

Fronting the noontide Sun. We paused to admirp 

The pillared Porch, elaborately embossed ; 

The low wide windows with their mullions old ; 

The cornice richly fretted, of gray stone ; 

And that smooth slope from which the Dwelling joi:e 

By beds and banks Arcadian of gay flowers 

And flowering shrubs, protected and adorned ; 

Profusion brigiit ! and every flower assuming 

A mere than natural vividness of hue, 

From unaffected contrast with the gloom 

Of sober cypress, and the darker foil 

Of yew, in which survived some traces, here 

Not unbecoming, of grotesque device 

And uncouth fancy. From behind the roof 

Hose the slim ash and massy sycamore, 

Blending their diverse foliage with the green 

Of ivy, flourishing and thick, that clasped 

The huge round chimneys, harbor of delight 

For wren and redbreast, — where they sit and sing 

Tiieir slender ditties when the trees are bare. 

Nor must I leave untouched (the picture else 

Were incomplete) a relique of old times 

Happily spared, a little Gothic niche 



2<J0 W ^ROSWOitTll'iJ I'OEMS. 

Of nicest workmanship ; that once had held 

The sculptured Image of some Pation Saint, 

Or of the Blessed Virgin, looking down 

On all who entered those religious doors 

But lo ! where from the rocky garden Mount 

Crowned by its antique summer-house — descends, 

Light as the silver fawn, a radiant Girl ; 

For she hath recognized her honored Friend, 

The Wanderer ever welcome ! A prompt kiss 

The gladsome Child bestows at his request ; 

And, up the flowery lawn as we advanced, 

Hangs on the Old Man with a happy look, 

And with a pretty restless hand of love. 

— We enter — by the Lady of the Place 

Cordially greeted. Graceful was her port* 

A lofty stature undepressed by Time, 

Whose visitation had not wholly spared 

The finer lineaments of form and face ; 

To that complexion brought which prudence trusts in 

And wisdom loves. — But when a stately Ship 

Sails in smooth weather by the placid coast 

On homeward voyage, what — if wind and wave 

And hardship undergone in various climes, 

Have caused her to abate the virgin pride, 

And that full trim of inexperienced hope 

With which she left her haven — not for this, 

Should the sun strike her, and the impartial breeze 

Play on her streamers, fails she to assume 

Brightness and touching beauty of her own, 

That charm all eyes. So bright, so fair, appeared 

This goodly Matron, shining in the beams 

Of unexpected pleasure. Soon the board 

Was spread, and we partook a plain repast. 

Here, resting in cool shelter, we beguiled 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 261 

The mid-day hours with desultory talk ; 
From trivial themes to g-eneral argument 
Passing-, as accident or fancy led, 
Or courtesy prescribed. While question rose 
And answer flowed, the fetters of reserve 
Dropping" from every mind, the Solitary 
Resumed the manners of his happier days ; 
And, in the various conversation, bore 
A willing", nay, at times, a forward part; 
Yet with the g-race of one who in the world 
Had learned the art of pleasing-, and had now 
Occasion given him to display his skill. 
Upon the steadfast vantage ground of truth 
He gazed with admiration unsuppressed 
Upon the landscape of the sun-bright vale. 
Seen, from the shady room in which we sate, 
In softened perspective ; and more than once 
Praised the consummate harmony serene 
Of gravity and elegance — diffused 
Around tlie Mansion and its whole domain ; 
Not, doubtless, without help of female taste 
And female care — "A blessed lot is yours ! ** 
The words escaped his lip with a tender sigh 
Breathed over them ; but suddenly the door 
Flew open, and a pair of lusty Boys 
Appeared — confusion checking their delight. 
— Not Brothers they in feature or attire, 
But fond Companions, so I guessed, in field, 
And by the river's margin — whence they come, 
Anglers elated with unusual spoil. 
One bears a willow-pannier on his back, 
The Boy of plainer garb, whose blush survives 
More deeply tinged. Twin might the otiier be 
To that fair Girl who from the garden Mount 
Bounded — triumphant entry this for him! 



262 • Wordsworth's poems. 

Between his hands he holds a smooth blue stone, 

On whose capacious surface see outspread 

Large store of gleaming crimson-spotted trouts ; 

Ranged side by side, and lessening by degrees 

Up to the Dwarf that tops the pinnacle. 

Upon the Board he lays the sky-blue stone 

With its rich freight-; — thdir number he proclaiuu ; 

Tells from what pool the noblest had been driigged 

And where the very monarch of the brook. 

After long struggle, had escaped at last — 

Stealing alternately at them and us 

(As doth his Comrade too) a look of pride 

And, verily, the silent Creatures made 

A splendid sight, together thus exposed; 

Dead — but not sullied or deformed by Death, 

That seemed to pity what he could not sj-are. 

But O, the animation in the mien 

Of those two Boys ! Yea, in the very words 

With which the young Narrator was inspired, 

When, as our questions led, he told at large 

Of that day's prowess! Him might I compare 

His look, tones, gestures, eager eloquence, 

To a bold Brook that splits for better speed, 

And, at the self-same moment, works its wa} 

Through many channels, ever and anon 

Parted and reunited : his Compeer 

To the still Lake, whose stillness is to sight 

As beautiful, as grateful to the mind. 

— But to what object shall the lovely Girl 

Be likened ? She whose countenance and aii 

Unite the graceful qualities of both. 

Even as she shares the pride and joy of both. 

My gray-haired Friend was moved ; his vivid eye 



Wordsworth's poems. 263 

Glistened with tenderness ; his Mind, I kn<2w, 

Was full ; and had, I doubted not, returned, 

Upon this impulse, to the theme ereuhile 

Abruptly broken off. The ruddy Boys 

Withdrew, on summons to their well-earned meal ; 

And He — (to Avhom all tongues resigned their rights 

With willingness, to whom the general ear 

Listened with readier patience than to strain 

Of music, lute or harp, — a long delight 

That ceased not when his voice had ceased) as One 

Who from truth's central point serenely views 

The compass of his argument — began 

Mildly, and witli a clear and steady tone. 



THE EXCURSION. 



BOOK THE NINTH. 

DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, AND AN EVENING 
VISIT TO THE LAKE. 

ARGUMENT. 

Wanderer asserts thai an active principle pervades the Universe— Its 
noblest seat, the human soul — How lively this principle is in Cliild- 
hood — Hence the delight in Old Age of looking back upon Childhood 

— The dignity, pdwers, and privileges of Age asserted — These not 
to be looked for generally but under a just government — Right of a 
human Creature to be exempt from being considered as a mere In- 
strument — Vicious inclinations are best kept ujider by giving good 
ones an opportunity to show themselves — The condition of multitudes 
deplored, from want of due respect to this truth on the part of their 
superiors in society. — Former conversation recurred to, and the 
Wanderer's opinion set in a clearer light — Genuine principles of 
equality — Truth placed within reach of the humblest — Happy state 
of the two Boys again adverted to — Earnest wish expressed for a 
System of National Education established universally by Government 

— Glorious effects of this foretold — Wanderer breaks off — Walk to 
the Lake — Embark — Description of scenery and amusements — 
Grand spectacle from the side of a hill — Address of Priest to the 
Supreme Being — In the course of which he contrasts with ancient 
Barbarism the present appearance of the scene before him — The 
change ascribed to Christianity — Apostrophe to his Flock, living 
and dead — Gratitude to the Almighty — Return over the Lake — « 
Partijig with the Solitary — Under what circumstances. 



Wordsworth's poems. 265 

" To every Form of being" is assigned," 
Thus calmly spake the venerable Sage, 
" An active principle : — howe'er removed 
From sense and observation, it subsists 
In all things, in all natures, in the stars 
Of azure heav }n, the unenduring clouds, 
In flower and tree, in every pebbly stone 
That paves the brooks, the stationary rocks, 
The moving waters, and the invisible air. 
Whate'er exists hath properties that spread 
Beyond itself, communicating good, 
A simple blessing, or with evil mixed ; 
vSpirit that knows no insulated spot. 
No chasm, no solitude ; from link to link 
It circulates, the Soul of all the Worlds. 
This is the freedom of the Universe ; 
Unfolded still the more, more visible. 
The more we know ; and yet is reverenced leaat, 
And least respected, in the human Mind, 
Its most apparent home. The food of hope 
Is meditated action; robbed of this 
Her sole support, she languishes and dies. 
We perish also; fur we live by hope 
And by desire ; we see by the glad light, 
And breathe the sweet air of futurity. 
And so we live, or else we have no life. 
To-morrow — nay, perchance this very hour, — 
(For every moment hath its own to-morrow !) 
Those blooming Boys, whose hearts are almost sick 
With present triumph, will be sure to find 
A field before them freshened with the dew 
Of other expectations ; — in which course 
Their happy year spins round. The youth obeys 
A like glad impulse ; and so moves the Man 
'Mid all his apprehensions, cares, and fears, — 
23 



2GC) "Wordsworth's poems. 

Or so he ought to move. Ah ! why in age 

Do we revert so fondly to the walks 

Of Childhood — but that there the Soul discerns 

The dear meaiorial footsteps unimpaired 

Of her own native vigor — thence can hear 

Reverberations ; and a choral song, 

Commingling with the incense that ascends 

Undaunted, tow'rd the imperishable heavens, 

From her own lonely altar ? Do not think 

That Good and Wise ever will be allowed. 

Though strength decay, to breathe in such estate 

As shall divide them wholly from the stir 

Of hopeful nature. Rightly is it said 

That Man descends into the Vale of years ; 

Yet have I thought that we might also speak, 

And not presumptuously, I trust, of Age, 

As of a final Eminence, though bare 

In aspect and forbidding, yet a Point 

On which 'tis not impossible to sit 

In awful sovereignty — a place of power — 

A Throne, that may be likened unto his. 

Who, in some placid day of sunmier, looks 

Down from a mountain-top, — say one of those 

High Peaks, that bound the vale where now wo are 

Faint, and diminished to the gazing eye, 

Forest and field, and hill and dale appear. 

With all the shapes upon their surface spread : 

Bi-.t, while the gross and visible frame of things 

Relinquishes its hold upon the sense. 

Yea, almost on the Mind herself, and seems 

All unsubstantialized, — hoAv^ loud the voice 

Of waters, with invigorated peal 

From the full River in the vale below, 

Ascending ! For on that superior height 

Who sits, is disencumbered from the press 



Wordsworth's poems. 267 

Of near obstructions, and is privileged 

To breathe in solitude above the host 

Of ever-humming insects, 'mid thin air 

That suits not them. The murmur of the lea\es 

Many and idle, visits not his ear ; 

Tliis he is freed from, and from thousand notes 

Not less unceasing, not less vain than these, — 

By which the finer passages of sense 

Are occupied; and the Soul, that would incline 

To listen, is prevented or deterred. 

" And may it not be hoped, that, placed by Age 

In like removal, tranquil though severe, 

We are not so removed for utter loss; 

But for some favor, suited to our need ? 

What more than that the severing should confer 

Fresh power to commune with the invisible world. 

And hear the mighty stream of tendency 

Uttering, for elevation of our thought, 

A clear sonorous voice, inaudible 

To the vast multitude ; whose doom it is 

To run the giddy round of vain delight, 

Or fret and labor on the Plain below. 

" But, if to such sublime ascent the hopes 
Of Man may rise, as to a welcome close 
And termination of his mortal course. 
Them only can such hope inspire whose minds 
Have not been starved by absolute neglect ; 
Nor bodies crushed by unremitting toil ; 
To Avhom kind Nature, therefore, may afford 
Proof of the sacred love she bears for all ; 
Whose birthright Reason, therefore, may ensiire. 
For me, consultmg what I feel within. 



268 Wordsworth's poems. 

In times when most existence with herself 

Is satisfied, I cannot but believe, 

That, far as kindly Nature hath free scope 

And Reason's sway predominates, even so far, 

Country, society, and time itself, 

That saps the Individual's bodily frame, 

And lays the generations low in dust, 

Do, by the Almighty Ruler's grace, partake 

Of one maternal spirit, bringing forth 

And cherishing, with ever-constant love. 

That tires not, nor betrays. Our Life is turned 

Out of her course, wherever Man is made 

An offering, or a sacrifice, a tool 

Or implement, a passive Thing employed 

As a brute mean, without acknowledgment 

Of common right or interest in the end ; 

CJsed or abused, as selfishness may prompt. 

Say, what can follow for a Vational Soul 

Perverted thus, but weakness in all good 

And strength in evil ? Hence an after-call 

For chastisement, and custody, and bonds. 

And oft-times Death, avenger of the past. 

And the sole guardian in whose hands we dare 

Entrust the future. Not for these sad issues 

Was Man created; but to obey the law 

Of life, and hope, and action. And 'tis known 

That when we stand upon our native soil, 

T.Fnelbowed by such objects as oppress 

Our active powers, those powers themselves become 

Strong to subvert our noxious qualities : 

They sweep distemper from the busy day, 

And make the Chalice of the big round Year 

Run o'er with gladness ; whence the Being moves 

In beauty through the world ; and all who see 

Bless him, rejoicing in his neighborhood." 



Wordsworth's poems. 2(>^ 

• Then," said the Solitary, " by what force 

Of language shall a feeling Heart express 

Her sorrow for that multitude in whom 

We look for health from seeds that have been sown 

In sickness, and for increase in a power 

That works but by extinction ? On themselves 

They cannot lean, nor turn to their own hearts 

To know what they must do ; their wisdom is 

To look into the eyes of others, thence 

To be instructed what they must avoid : 

Or rather let us say, how least observed. 

How with most quiet and most silent deatii, 

With the least taint and injury to the air 

The Oppressor breathes, their human Form divine, 

And their immortal Soul, may waste away." 



The Sage rejoined, "I thank you — you have spared 
My voice the utterance of a keen regret, 
A wide compassion which with you I share. 
When, heretofore, I placed before your sight 
A Little-one, subjected to the Arts 
Of modern ingenuity, and made 
The senseless member of a vast machine. 
Serving as doth a spindle or a wheel ; 
Think not that, pitying him, 1 could forget 
The rustic Boy, who walks the fields, untaught- 
The slave of ignorance, and oft of want. 
And miserable hunger. Much, too much 
Of this unhappy lot, in early youth 
We both have witnessed, lot which I myself 
Shared, though in mild and merciful degree: 
Yet was the mind to hindrances exposed. 
Through which I struggled, not without distress 
And sometimes iiijuiy, like a La;nb euthrallod 
23* 



270 Wordsworth's pokms. 

'Mid thorns and brambles ; or a Bird that breaks 

Through a strong net, and mounts upon tlie wind, 

Though with her plumes impaired. If they, whose souls 

Should open while they range the richer fields 

Of merry England, are obstructed less 

By indigence, their ignorance is not less, 

Nor less to be deplored. For who can doubt 

That tens of thousands at this day exist 

Such as the Boy you painted, lineal Heirs 

Of those who once were Vassals of her soil. 

Following its fortunes like the beasts or trees 

Which it sustained. But no one takes delight ' 

In this op])ression ; none are proud of it ; 

It bears no sounding name, nor ever bore; 

A standing grievance, an indigenous vice 

Of every country under heaven. My thoughts 

Were turned to evils that are new and chosen, 

A Bondage lurking under shape of good, — 

Arts, in themselves beneficent and kind, 

But all too fondly followed and too far ; 

To Victims, which the merciful can see 

Nor think that they are Victims ; turned to wrongs 

By Women, who have Children of their own, 

Beheld witliout compassion — yea, with praise! 

I spake of mischief by the wise diffused 

With gladness, thinking that the more it snronds 

The healthier, the securer, we become ; 

Delusion Avhich a moment may destroy ! 

Lastly, I mourned for those whom I had seen 

Corrupted and cast down, on favored ground, 

SVhere circumstance and nature had combined 

To shelter innocence, and cherish love : 

Vv'ho, but for this intrusion, would have lived. 

Possessed of health, and strength, and poace of mi no 

Thus would have lived, or never h.sve been born. 



WORDSWORTH S POE?.33 V/ I 

. Alas ! what differs more than man from man r* 
And whence that difference ? whence but frotn hioisclf r 
Por see the the universa. Race endowed 
With the same upright fc rm ! The sun is fixed, 
And the infinite magnificence of heaven, 
Fixed within reach of every human eye ; 
The sleepless Ocean murmurs for all ears ; 
The vernal field infuses fresh delight 
Into all hearts. Throughout the Avorld of sense, 
Even as an object is sublime or fair, 
That object is laid open to the view 
Without reserve or veil ; and as a power 
Is salutary, or an influence sweet, 
Are each and all enabled to perceive 
That power, that influence, by impartial law. 
Gifts nobler are vouchsafed alike to all ; 
Reason, — and, with that reason, smiles and tears; 
Imagination, freedom in the will, 
Conscience to guide and check; and death to b"' 
Foretasted, immortality presumed. 

Strange, then, nor less than monstrous might be drc ns'd 
The failure, if- the Almighty, to this point 
Liberal and undestinguishing, should hide 
The excellence of moral qualities 
From common understanding ; leaving truth 
And virtue, diflicult, abstruse, and dark ; 
Hard to be won, and only by a few ; 
Strange, should He deal herein with nice respects, 
And frustrate all the rest ! Believe it not : 
The primal duties shnie aloft — like stars; 
The charities that soothe, and heal, and bie<s, 
Are scattered at the feet of Man — like flowers. 
The generous inclination, the just rule, 
Kind wishes, and good actions, and pure thoughts — 
NO mystery is here ; no special boon 



272 Wordsworth's poems. 

For high and not for low, for proudly graced 

And not for meek of heart. The smoke ascends 

To heaven as lightly from the Cottage hearth 

As from the haughty palace. He, whose soul 

Ponders this true equality, may walk 

The fields of earth with gratitude and hope, 

Yet, in that meditation, will he find 

I\Iotive to sadder grief, as we have found, — 

Lamenting ancient virtues overthrown. 

And for the injustice grieving, that hath made 

So wide a difference betwixt Man and Man. 

"But let us rather turn our gladdened thoughts 

Upon the brighter scene. How blest that Pair 

Of blooming Boys (whom we behold even now) 

Blest in their several and their common lot! 

A few short hours of each returning day 

The thriving Prisoners of their Village school : 

And thence let loose, to seek their pleasant homes 

Or range the grassy lawn in vacancy. 

To breathe and to be happy, run and shout 

Idle, — but no delay, no harm, no loss; 

For every genial P(?wer of heaven and earth, 

Through all the seasons of the changeful year, 

Obsequiously doth take upon herself 

To labor for them ; bringing each in turn 

The tribute of enjoyment, knowledge, health. 

Beauty, or strength ! Such privilege is theirs, 

Granted alike in the outset of their course 

To both ; and, if that partnership must ceaso, 

I grieve not," to the Pastor here he turned, 

"Much as I glory in that Child of yours. 

Repine not, for his Cottage-comrade, whom 

Belike no higher destiny awaits 

Than the old hereditary wish fulfilled, 



Wordsworth's poems. 273 

The wish for liberty to live — content 

With what Heaven grants, and die — in peace of mind, 

Within the bosom of his native Vale. 

At least, whatever fate the noon of life 

Reserves for either, this is sure, that both 

Have been permitted to enjoy the dawn ; 

Whether regarded as a jocund time. 

That in itself may terminate, or lead 

In course of nature to a sober eve. 

Both have been fairly dealt with ; looking back 

They will allow that justice has in them 

Been shown — alike to body and to mind." 

He paused, as if revolving in his soul 

Some weighty matter, then, with fervent voice 

And an impassioned majesty, exclaimed, 

"O for the coming of that glorious time 

When, prizing knowledge as her noblest wealtk 

And best protection, this Imperial Realm, 

While she exacts allegiance, shall admit 

An obligation, on her part, to teach 

Them who are born to serve her and obey ; 

Binding herself by Statute to secure 

For all the Children whom her soil maintains 

The rudiments of Letters, and inform 

The mind with moral and religious truth, 

Both understood, and practised, — so that none, 

However destitute, he left to droop 

By timely culture unsustained ; or run 

Into a wild disorder ; or be forced 

To drudge through weary life without the aid 

Of intellectual implements and tools ; 

A savage Horde among the civilized, 

A servile Band among the lordly free ! 

This sacred right, the lisping Babe proclaims 



974 WORDS worth's poems. 

To be inherent, in him, by Heaven's wil! 

For the protection of his innocence ; 

And the rude Boy, — who, having' overpast 

The sinless age, by conscience is enrolled, 

Yet mutinously knits his angry brow, 

And lifts his wilful hand on mischief bent, 

Or turns the godlike faculty of speech 

To impious use — by process indirect 

Declares his due, while he makes known his need 

— This sacred right is fruitlessly announced, 

This universal plea in vain addressed. 

To eyes and ears of Parents who themselves 

Did, in the time of their necessity, 

Urge it in vain ; and, therefore, like a prayer 

That from the huuiblest floor ascends to heaven, 

Ft mounts to reach the State's parental ear; 

Who, if indeed she own a Mother's heart, 

And be not most unfeehngly devoid 

Of gratitude to Providence, will grant 

The unquestionable good ; which England, safe 

From interference of external force, 

May grant at leisure ; without risk incurred 

That what in wisdom for herself she doth. 

Others shall e'er be able to undo. 

^'Look! and behold, from Calpe's sunburnt cliffs 
To the flat margin of the Baltic sea, 
Long-reverenced Titles cast away as weeds ; 
Jiaws overturned; — and Territory split. 
Like fields of ice rent by the polar wind. 
And forced to jc in is less obnoxious shapes, 
Which, ere they gain consistence, by a gust 
Of the same breath are shattered and destroyed. 
Meantime the Sovereignty of these fair Isles 
Remains entire and indivisible ; 



v/{)ri»swohth's poems. 27.1 

And, if that ignorance were removed, which brceda 

Within the compass of their several shjres 

Dark discontent, or loud commotion, each 

Might still preserve the beautiful repose 

Of heavenly Bodies shining- in their spheres. 

— The discipline of slavery is unknown 

Amongst us, — hence the more do we require 

The discipline of virtue ; order else 

Cannot subsist, nor confidence, nor peace. 

Thus duties, rising out of good possessed, 

And prudent caution needful to avert 

Impending evil, equally require 

That the whole people should be taught and trained. 

So shall licentiousness and black resolve 

Be rooted out, and virtuous habits take 

Their place ; and genuine piety descend, 

Like an inheritance, from age to age. 



" With such foundations laid, avaunt the fear 

Of numbers crowded on their native soil. 

To the prevention of all healthful growth 

Through mutual injury ! Rather in the law 

Of increase and the mandate from above 

Rejoice ! — and Ye have special cause for joy. 

— For, as the element of air affords 

An easy passage to the industrious bees 

Fraught with their burthens ; and a way as sniootn 

For those ordained to take their sounding flight 

From the thronged hive, and settle where they list 

In fresh abodes, their labor to renew ; 

So the Avide waters, open to the power, 

The will, the instincts, and appointed needs 

Of Britain, do invite her to cast off 

Her swarms, and in succession send them forth : 



276 Wordsworth's poems. 

Bound to establish new communities 

On every shore whose aspect favors hope 

Or bold adventure ; promising to skill 

And perseverance their deserved reward. 

— Yes," he continued, kindling as he spake, 

"Change wide, and deep, and silently perloiined 

This Land shall witness ; and as days roll on, 

Earth's universal Frame shall feel the effect 

Even till the smallest habitable Rock, 

Beaten by lonely billows, hear the songs 

Of humanized Society ; and bloom 

With civil arts, that send their fragrance forth, 

A grateful tribute to all-ruling Heaven. 

From Culture, unexclusively bestowed 

On Albion's noble Race in freedom born, 

Expect these mighty issues ; from the pains 

And faithful care of unambitious Schools 

Instructing simple Childhood's ready ear : 

Thence look for these magnificent results ! 

Vast the circumference of hope — and Ye 

Are at its centre, British Lawgivers ; 

Ah! sleep not there in shame! Shall Wisdom's v< 

From out the bosom of these troubled Times 

Repeat the dictates of her calmer mind, 

And shall the venerable Halls ye fill 

Refuse to echo the sublime decree ? 

Trust not to partial care a general good; 

Transfer not to futurity a work 

Of urgent need. — Your Country must complete 

Her glorious destiny. — Begin even now, 

Now, when Oppression, like the Egyptian plague 

Of darkness, stretched o'er guilty Europe, makes 

The brightness more conspicuous, that invests 

The happy Island where ye think and act; 

Now, when Destruction is a prime pursuit, 



Wordsworth's poems. \IT! 

Show to the wretched Nations for what end 
The Powers of civil Polity were given ! " 

Abruptly here, but with a graceful air, 
The Sage broke off*. No sooner had he ceasad 
Than, looking forth, the gentle Lady said, 
"Behold the shades of afternoon have fallen 
Upon this flowery slope ; and see — beyond — 
The Lake, though bright, is of a placid blue ; 
As if preparing for the peace of evening. 
How temptingly the Landscape shines! — The air 
Breathes invitation ; easy is the walk 
To the Lake's margin, where a boat lies moored 
Beneath her sheltering tree." — Upon this hint 
We rose together ; all were pleased — but most 
The beauteous Girl, whose cheek was flushed with joy 
Light as a sunbeam glides along the hills 
She vanished — eager to impart the scheme 
To her loved Brother and his shy Compeer. 
— Now was there bustle in the Vicar's house 
And earnest preparation. — Forth we went, 
And down the vale along the Streauilet's {^Ige 
Pursued our way, a broken Company, 
Mute or conversing, single or in pairs. 
Thus having reached a bridge, that overarched 
The hasty rivulet where it lay becalmed 
In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw 
A two-fold Image ; on a grassy bank 
A snow-white Ram, and in the crystal flood 
Another and the same ! Most beautiful. 
On the green turf, with his imperial froiit 
Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb, 
The breathing Creature stood ; as beautiful. 
Beneath him, showed his shadowy counterpart. 
Each had his glowing mountains, each his sky, 
24 



278 Wordsworth's pof.ms. 

And each seemed centre of his own fair world : 
Antipodes unconscious of each other, 
Yet, in partition, with their several spheres, 
Blended in perfect stillness, to our sight ! 

" Ah ! what a pity were it to disperse, 
Or to disturb, so fair a spectacle, 
And yet a breath can do it!" 

, These few words 
The Lady whispered, while we stood and gazed 
Gathered together, all in still delight, 
Not without awe. Thence passing on, she saio 
In like low voice to my particular ear, 
"I love to hear that eloquent Old Man 
Pour forth his meditations, and descaR„ 
On human life from infancy to age. 
How pure his spirit ! in what vivid hues 
His mind gives back the various forms of things, 
Caught in their fairest, happiest attitude ! 
While he is speaking, I have power to see 
Even as he sees ; but Avhen his voice hath ceased, 
Then, with a sigh, sometimes I feel, as now, 
That combinations so serene and bright, 
Like those reflected in yon quiet Pool, 
Cannot be lasting in a world like ours. 
To great and small disturbances exposed." 
More had she said — but sportive shouts were iicard 
Sent from the jocund hearts of those two Boys, 
Who, bearing each a basket on his arm, 
Down the green field came tripping after us. 
— When we had cautiously embarked, the I^air 
Now for a prouder service were addrest ; 
Bat an inexorable law forbade, 
And each resigned the oar which he had seized. 
Whereat, with willing hand I undertook 



Wordsworth's poems. 279 

The needful labor ; grateful task ! to me 
Pregnant with recollections of the time 
When, on thy bosom, spacious Windermere . 
A Youth, I practised this delightful art ; 
Tossed on the waves alone, or 'mid a crew 
Of joyous comrades. Now, the reedy marge 
Cleared, with a strenuous arm I dipped the oar, 
Free from obstruction ; and the Boat advanced 
Through crystal water, smoothly as a Hawk, 
That, disentangled from the shady boughs 
Of some thick wood, her place of covert, cleaves 
With correspondent wings the abyss of air. 

— " Observe," the Vicar said, " yon rocky Isle 
With bircii-trees fringed ; my hand shall guide the l\-rAn\ 
While thitherward we bend our course ; or wliilc 
We seek that other, on the western shore, — 
Where the bare columns of those lofty firs, 
Supporting gracefully a massy Dome 

Of sombre foliage, seem to imitate 

A Grecian Temple rising from the Deep." 

" Turn where we may," said I, " we cannot err 

[n this delicious Region." Cultured slopes. 

Wild tracts of forest-ground, and scattered groves, 

And mountains bare — or clothed with ancient (vooda 

Surrounded us ; and, as we held our way 

Along the level of the glassy flood. 

They ceased not to surround us ; cliange of plac(;, 

From kindred features diversely combined, 

Producing change of beauty ever new. 

— Ah! that such beauty, varying in the light 
Of living nature, cannot be portrayed 

By words, nor by the pencil's silent skill; 

But is the property of him alone 

VVho hatli beheld it, noted it with care, 



280 Wordsworth's toeivts. 

And in his mind recorded it with love ! 

Suffice it, therefore, if the rural Muse 

Vouchsafe sweet influence, while her Poet speaks 

Of trivial occupations well devised. 

And unsought pleasures springing up by chance , 

As if some friendly Genius had ordained 

That, as the day thus far had been enriched 

By acquisition of sincere delight. 

The same should be continued to its uiose. 

One spirit animating old and young, 

A gipsey fire we kindled on the shore 

Of the fair Isle with birch-trees fringed — and tliere 

Merrily seated in a ring, partook 

The beverage drawn from China's fragrant herb. 

— Launched from our hands, the smooth stone skimmed 

the lake ; 
With shouts we roused the echoes; — stiller sounds 
The lovely Girl supplied — a simple song. 
Whose low tones reached not to the distant rocks 
To be repeated thence, but gently sank 
Into our hearts ; and charmed the peaceful flood. 
Rapaciously we gathered flowery spoils 
From land and water ; Lilies of each hue — 
Golden and white, that float upon the waves, 
And court the wind; and leaves of that sly Plant, 
(Her flowers were shed) the Lily of the Vale, 
That loves the ground, and from the sun withholds 
Her pensive beauty, from the breeze her sweets. 

Such product, and such pastime did the place 
And season yield ; but, as Ave reeinbarked, 
Leaving, in quest of other scenes, the shore 
Of that wild Spot, the Solitary said 
In a low voice, yet careless who might hour, 



Wordsworth's poems. 281 

"The lire, that burned so brightly to our wish, 

Where is it now? Deserted on the beach 

It seems extinct ; nor shall the fanning breeze 

Revive its ashes. What care we for this, 

Whose ends are gained ? Behold an emblem here 

Of one day's pleasure, and all mortal joys ! 

And, in this unpremeditated slight 

Of that which is no longer needed, see 

The common course of human gratitude ! " 

This plaintive note disturbed not the repose 
Of the still evening. Right across the Lake 
Our pinnace moves : then, coasting creek and bay, 
Glades we behold — and into thickets peep — 
Where couch the spotted deer ; or raised our eyes 
To shaggy steeps on which the careless goat 
Browsed by the side of dashing waterfalls. 
Thus did the Bark, meandering with the shore, 
Pursue her voyage, till a natural pier 
Of jutting rock invited us to land. 

- Alert to follow as the Pastor led, 
We clomb a green hill's side ; and as we cloiiil), 
The Valley, opening out her bosom, gave 
Fair prospect, intercepted less and less. 
Of the flat meadows and indented coast 
Of the smooth lake — in compass seen: — fur off, 
And yet conspicuous, stood the old Church-to u-or, 
In majesty presiding over fields 
And habitations, seemingly preserved 
From the intrusion of a restless world 
By rocks impassable and mountains huge. 

Soft heath this elevated spot supplied, 
And choice of moss-clad stones, whereon we conciied 
Or sate reclining — admiring quietly 
24* 



282 worusavorth's poems. 

The genera] aspect of the scene ; but each 

Not seldom over-anxious to make known 

His own discoveries ; or to favorite points 

Directing notice, merely from a wish 

To impart a joy, imperfect while unshared. 

That rapturous moment ne'er shall 1 forget 

When these particular interests were effacea 

From every mind ! Already had the sun, 

Sinking with less than ordinary state 

Attained his western bound; but rays of light — 

Now suddenly diverging from the orb 

Retired behind the mountain-tops or veiled 

By the dense air — shot upwards to the crown 

Of the blue firmament — aloft — and wide: 

And multitudes of little floating clouds, 

Ere we, who saw, of change were conscious, pierced 

Through their ethereal texture, had become 

Vivid as fire — clouds separately poised, 

Innumerable multitude of Forms 

Scattered through half the circle of the sky ; 

And giving back, and shedding each on each, 

With prodigal communion, the bright hues 

Which from the unapparent Fount of glory 

'i'hey had imbibed, and ceased not to receive. 

Tiiat which the heavens displayed, the liquid deep 

Repeated ; but with unity sublime ! 

While from the grassy mountain's open side 
We gazed, in silence hashed, with eyes intent 
On the refulgent spectacle — diffused 
Through earth, sky, water, and all visible space, 
Tiie Priest in holy transport thus exclaimed : — 

" Eternal Spirit ! Universal God ! 
Vower inaccessible to human tlionglit, 



Wordsworth's poems. 283 

Save by degrees and steps which Thou hast deigned 

To furnish ; for this effluence of Thyself, 

To the infirmity of mortal sense 

Vouchsafed ; this local transitory type 

Of thy paternal splendors, and the pomp 

Of those who fill thy courts in highest heaven, 

The radiant Cherubim ; — accept the thanks 

Which we, thy humble Creatures, here convened. 

Presume to offer ; we, who from the breast 

Of the frail earth, permitted to behold 

The faint reflections only of thy face, 

Are yet exalted, and in soul adore ! 

Such as they are who in thy presence stand 

Unsullied, incorruptible, and drink 

Imperishable majesty streamed forth 

From thy empyreal Throne, the elect of Earth 

Shall be — divested at the appointed hour 

Of all dishonor — cleansed from mortal stain. 

— Accomplish, then, their number; and conclude 
Time's weary course ! Or if, by thy decree, 
The consummation that will come by stealth 

Be yet far distant, let thy Word prevail, 
Oh ! let thy Word prevail, to take away 
The sting of human nature. Spread the Law, 
As it is written in thy holy Book, 
Throughout all lands ; let every nation hear 
The high behest, and every heart obey ; 
Both for the love of purity, and hope 
Which it affords, to such as do thy will 
And persevere in good, that they shall rise, 
'J'o have a nearer view of Thee, in heaven. 

— Father of Good I this prayer in bounty grant. 
In mercy grant it to thy wretched Sons. 

Then, not till then, shall persecution cfase. 
And cruel Wars expire. The way is marled. 



284 Wordsworth's poems. 

The guide appointed, and the ransom paid. 
Alas ! the Nations, who of yore received 
These tidings, and in Christian Temples meet 
The sacred truth to acknoAvledge, linger still; 
Preferring bonds and darkness to a state 
Of holy freedom, by redeeming love 
Proffered to all, while yet on earth detained. 
• 

" So fare the many ; and the thoughtful few, 

Who in the anguish of their souls bewail 

This dire perverseness, cannot choose but 'asV,, 

Shall it endure ? Shall enmity and strife, 

Falsehood and guile, be left to sow their seed ; 

And the kind never perish ? Is the hope 

Fallacious, or shall righteousness obtain 

A peaceable dominion, wide as earth, 

And ne'er to fail ? Shall that blest day arrive 

When they, whose choice or lot it is to dwell 

In crowded cities, without fear shall live 

Studious of mutual benefit ; and he, 

Whom morning wakes, among sweet dews and flowera 

Of every clime, to till the lonely field. 

Be happy in himself? The law of faith 

Working through love, such conquest shall it gain, 

Such triumph over sin and guilt achieve? 

Almighty Lord, thy further grace impart ! 

And with that help the wonder shall be seen 

Fulfilled, the hope accomplished ; and thy pr'a.is<:- 

Be sung with transport and unceasing joy. 

" Once," and with mild demeanor, as he spake, 
On us the Venerable Pastor turned 
His beaming eye that had been raised to Heaven, 
'•• Once, while the Name, Jehovah, was a sound 
Vx'ithin the circuit of this sea-girt isle 



Wordsworth's poems. 285 

Unheard, the savage nations bowed the head 

To Gods delighting in remorseless deeds ; 

Gods which themselves had fashioned, to promote 

111 purposes, and flatter foul desires. 

Then, in the bosom of yon mountain cove, 

To those inventions of corrupted Man 

Mysterious rites were solemnized ; and there, 

Amid impending rocks and gloomy woods, 

Of those terrific Idols, some received 

Such dismal service, that the loudest voice 

Of the swoln cataracts (which now are heard 

Soft murmuring) was too weak to overcome, 

Tliough aided by wild winds, the groans and shrieks 

Of human Victims, offered up to appease 

Or to propitiate. And, if living eyes 

Had visionary faculties to see 

The thing that hath been as the thing that is, 

Aghast we might behold this crystal Mere 

Bedimmed with smoke, in wreaths voluminous, 

Flung from the body of devouring fires, 

To Taranis erected on the heights 

By priestly hands, for sacrifice performed 

Exultinglv, in view of open day 

And full assemblage of a barbarous Host; 

Or to Andates, Female Power ! who gave 

(For so they fancied) glorious Victory. 

— A few rude Monuments of mountain-stone 

Survive ; all else is swept away. How bright 

The appearances of things ! From such, how chaiiijed 

The existing worship ; and with those compared, 

The Worshippers how innocent and blest ! 

So wide the difference, a willing mind. 

At this affecting hour, might aimost think 

That Paradise, the lost abode of man, 

Was raised again ; and to a happy Few, 



286 Wordsworth's pokhts. 

^n its orig-inal beauty, here restored. 
- Whence but from Thee, the true and only God, 
And from the faith derived through Him who bled 
Upon the Cross, this marvellous advance 
Of good from evil ; as if one extreme 
Were left — the other gained ? O Ye, who come 
To kneel devoutly in yon reverend Pile, 
Called to such office by the peaceful sound 
Of Sabbath bells ; and Ye, who sleep in earth, 
A.11 cares forgotten, round its hallowed walls ! 
Por You, in presence of this little Band 
Gathered together on the green hill-side. 
Your Pastor is emboldened to prefer 
Vocal thanksgivings to the Eternal King ; 
Whose love, whose counsel, whose commiiiuis have 

made 
Your very poorest rich in peace of thought 
And in good works ; and Him, who is endoM-ed 
With scantiest knowledge, Master of all truth 
Which the salvation of his soul requires. 
Conscious of that abundant favor showered 
On you, the Children of my humble care. 
And this dear Land, our Country, while on Earth 
We sojourn, have I lifted up my soul, 
Joy fifiving voice to fervent gratitude. 
These barren rocks, your stern inheritance ; 
T'hese fertile fields, that recompense your pains ; 
The shadowy vale, the sunny mountain-top ; 
\Yoods waving in the wind their lofty heads, 
Or hushed ; the roaring waters, and the still ; 
They see the offering of my lifted hands — 
They hear my lips present their sacrifice — 
They know if I be silent, rnorn or even : 
For, though in whispers speaking, the full heart 
WiL find a vent ; and Thought is praise to Him, 



WORDRWORTn's POEMS. t287 

Audible praise, to Thee, Omniscient Mind, 

From Whom all gifts descend, all blessings flow!" 

This Vesper service closed, witliout delay, 

From that exahed station to the plain 

Descending, we pursued our homeward course 

In mute composure, o'er the shadowy lake, 

Beneath a faded sky. No trace remained 

Of those celestial splendors ; gray the vault, 

Pure, cloudless ether ; and the Star of Eve 

Was wanting ; — but inferior Lights appeared 

Faintly, too faint almost for sight ; and some 

Above the darkened hills stood boldly forth 

[n twinkling lustre, ere the Boat attained 

Her mooring-place ; — where to the shelt»;ring trc<\ 

Our youthful Voyagers bound fast her prow. 

With prompt yet careful hands. This done, m o paced 

The dewy fields ; but ere the Vicar's door 

Was reached, the Solitary checked his steps ; 

Then, intermingling thanks, on each bestowed 

A farewell salutation, — and, the like 

Receiving, took the slender path that leads 

To the one Cottage, in the lonely dell ; 

But turned not without welcome promise given, 

That he would share the pleasures and pursuits 

Of yet another summer's day, consumed 

In wandering with us through the Valleys fair, 

And o'er the Mountain-wastes. " Another suii," 

Said he, "shall shine upon us, ere we part, — 

Another sun, and peradventure more ; 

[f time, with free consent, is yours to give, — 

And season favors." 

To enfeebled Power, 
From this communion with uninjured Minds, 



288 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

What renovation had been brought ; and what 
Degree of healing to a wounded spirit, 
Dejected, and habitually disposed 
To seek, in degradation of the Kind, 
Excuse and solace for her OAvn defects ; 
How far those erring notions were reformed ; 
And whether aught, of tendency as good 
And pure, from further intercourse ensued ; 
This — (if delightful hopes, as heretofore, 
Inspire the serious son^, and gentle Hearts 
Cherish, and lofty Minds approve the past) 
My future Labors may not leave untol4 



?E7ER BELL 

A TALB. 



PETER BELL 

A TALE. 



What's in a Name ? 
Bnitiu will start a Spirit as soon as Caescir ! 



TO 

ROBERT SOUTHEY, Esq. P. L, 

&c., &c. 

My Dear Friend: — 

The Tale of Peter Bell, which I now introduce to your notice, and to 
lliat of the Public, has, in its Manuscript slate, nearly survived ita 
minority; — for it first saw the light in the summer of 1793 Daring 
this long in-rfval, pains have been taken at differeni times to ni:ike the 
production less unworthy of a favorable reception ; or, rather, to fit it 
for filling PERMANENTLY a station, however humble, in the Literature 
of my Country. This has, indeed, been the aim of all my endeavors in 
Poetry, which, you know, have been sufficiently laborious to prove that 
I deem the Art not lightly to be approached ; and that the attainment of 
excellence in it, may laudably be made the principal object of intel- 
lectual pursuit by any man, who, with reasonable coixsideraticn of cir- 
cumstaaces, has faith in his own impulsi-^s. 

The Poem of Peter Bell, as the Prologue will show, was composed 
under a belief that the Imagination not only does not require for its 
exercise the intervention of supernatural agency, but that, though such 
agency be excluded, the faculty may be called forth as imperiously, and 
for kindred resuhs of pleasure, by incidents, within iht- compass oi 
poetic probability, in the humblest departments of daily life. Sine* 



292 vpordswohth's poems. 

that Prologue was written, you have exhibited most splendid effects oi 
judicious daring, in the opposite and usual course. Lei this acknow. 
ledgment make my peace with the lovers of the supernatural ; and I am 
persuaded it will be admitted, that to you, as a Master in that province 
of the art, the following Tale, whether from contrast or congruity, is no* 
an unappropriate offering. Accept it, then, as a public testimony c. 
affectionate admiration from oni with whose name yours has been ofter. 
coupled (to use your own words) for evil and for good; and believe me 
to be, with earnest wishes that life and health may be granted you to 
complete the many important vvorks in which you are engaged, and 
with high respect, 

Most faithfully yours, 

William Wobdsworth. 
Rydal Mount, AprU 7, 1819. 



PROLOGUE. 

There's something in a flying horse, 
There's something in a huge balloon ; 
But through the clouds I'll never float 
Until I have a little Boat, 
Whose shape is like the crescent-moon. 

And now I have a little Boat, 

In shape a very crescent-moon : — 

Fast through the clouds my boat can sail ; 

But if perchance your faith should fail, 

Look up — and you shall see me soon! 

The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring, 
Rocking and roaring like a sea ; 
The noise of danger fills your ears, 
And ye have all a thousand fears 
Both for my little Boat and me' 



wcrdsworth's poems. 29?i 

Mear.while untroubled I admire 
The pointed horns of my canoe ; 
And, did not pity touch my breast, 
Fo see how ye are all distrest, 
Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you ' 

Away we go, my Boat and 1 — 
Frail man ne'er sate in such anotr^er ; 
Whether among the winds we strive. 
Or deep into the clouds we dive. 
Each is contented with the other. 

Away we go — and what care we 
For treasons, tumults, and for wars.? 
We are as calm in our delight 
As is the crescent moon so bright 
Among the scattered stars. 

Up goes my Boat among the stars 
Through many a breathless field of light, 
Through many a long blue field of ether, 
Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her. 
Up goes my little Boat so bright I 

The Crab — the Scorpion — and the Bull -«• 
We pry among them all — have shot 
High o'er the red-haired race of Mars, 
Covered fr'^m top to toe with scars; 
Such company T like it not! 

The towns in Saturn are decayed, 
And melancholy Spectres throng them ' 
The Pleiads, that appear to kiss 
Each other in the vast abyss. 
With joy I sail among them! 
25* 



294 Wordsworth's pokms. 

Swifl Mercury resounds with mirth, 
Great Jove is full of stately bowers ; 
But these, and all that they contain, 
What are they to that tiny grain. 
That little Earth of ours ? 

Then back to Earth, the dear green Earth ; 
Whole ages if I here should roam. 
The world for my remarks and me 
Would not a whit the better be ; 
I've left my heart at home. 

And there it is, the matchless Earth ! 
There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean! 
Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear 
Through the gray clouds — the Alps are here, 
Like waters in commotion ! 

Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands — 
That silver thread the river Dnieper — 
And look, where clothed in brightest greei 
Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen ; 
Ye fairies, from all evil keep her ! 

And see the town where I was born! 
Around those happy fields we span 
In boyish gambols — I was lost 
Where I have been, but on this coast 
I feel I am a man. 

Never did fifty things at once 
Appear so lovely, never, never, — 
How tunefully the forests ring ! 
To hear the earth's soft murmuring 
Thus could T hang for ever! 



wrORDS W^ORTH S POEMS. 

Shame on you ! " cried my little Boat, 
** Was ever such a homesick Loon, 
Within a living Boat to sit, 
And make no better use of it, — 
A Boa *.win-sister of the crescent moon ! 

Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet 
Fluttered so faint a heart before ; — 
Was it the music of the spheres 
That overpowered your mortal ears ? 
— Such din shall trouble them no more. 

These nether precintcs do not lack 
Charms of their own; — then come with me 
I want a Comrade, and for you 
There's nothing that I would not do ; 
Nought is there that you shall not see- 
Haste ! and above Siberian snows 
We'll sport amid the boreal morning, 
Will mingle with her lustres, gliding 
Among the stars, the stars now hiding, 
And now the stars adorning. 

I know the secrets of a land 
Where human foot did never stray ; 
Fair is that land as evening skies, 
And cool, -r though in the depth it lies 
0[ burning Africa. 

Or we'll into the rea.m of Faery, 
Among the lovely shades of things ; 
The shadowy forms of mountains bare, 
And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair, 
The shades of palaces and kings!. 



896 Wordsworth's poems. 

Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal 
Less quiet regions to explore, 
Prompt voyage shall to you reveal 
How earth and heaven are taught to feel 
The might of magic lore!" 

"My little vagrant Form of light, 

My gay and beautiful Canoe, 

Well have you played your friendly part; 

As kindly take what from my heart 

Experience forces — then adieu ! 

Temptation lurks among your words ; 
But, while these pleasures you're pursuing 
Without impediment or let, 
My radiant Pinnace, you forget 
What on the earth is doing. 

There was a time when all mankind 
Did listen with a faith sincere 
To tuneful tongues in mystery versed; 
Then Poets fearlessly rehearsed 
The wonders of a wild career. 

Go — (but the world's a sleepy world, 
And 'tis, I fear, an age too late) 
Take with you some ambitious Youth ; 
For, restless Wanderer! I, in truth. 
Am all unfit to be your mate. 

Long have I loved what I behold, — 
The night that calms, the day that cheers 
The common growth of mot'ier Earth 
Suffices me — her tears, her mirth, 
Her humblest mirth and tears. 



Wordsworth's poems. 297 

The draofon's wing, the maafic ring, 
I shall not covet for my dower, 
If I along that lowly way 
With sympathetic heart may stray, 
And with a soul of power. 

These given, what more need I desire 
To stir — to soothe — to elevate ? 
What nobler marvels than the mind 
May in life's daily prospect find, 
May find or there create ? 

A potent Avand doth Sorrow wield , 
What spell so strong as guilty fear? 
Repentance is a tender Sprite ; 
If aught on earth have heavenly might, 
Tis lodged within her silent tear. 

But grant my wishes, — let us now 
Descend from this ethereal height ; 
Then take thy way, adventurous Skiff, 
More daring far than HippogriflT, 
And be thy own delight ! 

To the stone-table in my garden, 
Loved haunt of many a summer hour, 
The Squire is come ; — his daughter Bese 
Beside him in the cool recess 
Sits blooming like a flower. 

With these are many more convened ; 
Thej know not I have been so far ; — 
I see them there, in number nine. 
Beneath the spreading Weymouth pine •— 
I see them — there thev are ! 



298 WORDSWORTH S POEMS. 

Theie sits the Vicar and his Dame ; 
And there my good friend, Stephen Otte. 
And, ere the light of evening fail, 
To them I must relate the Tale 
Of Peter Bell the Potter." 

Off flew my sparkling Boat in scorn, 
Spu-ning her freight with indignation! 
Anc I, as well as I was able, 
On two poor legs, tow'rd my stone-table 
Limped on with some vexation. 

" O, here he is!" cried little Bess — 
She saw me at the garden door, 
"We've waited anxiously and long," 
They cried, and all around me throng, 
Full nine of them or more ! 

" Reproach me not — your fears be still - 
Be thankful we again have met ; — 
Resume, my Friends! within the shade 
Your seats, and quickly shall be paid 
The well-remembered debt" 

I spake with faltering voice, like one 
Not wholly rescued from the Pale 
Of a wild dream, or worse illusion ; 
But, straight, to cover my confusion, 
Began the promised Tale. 



PART FIRST. 



All by the moonlight river side 
Groaned the poor Beast — alas! in vain: 



Wordsworth's pokms. 2iW 

The staff was raised to loftier hei^-lit, 
And the blows fell with heavier weight 
As Peter struck — and struck again. 

Like winds that lash the waves, or smite 
The woods, autumnal foliage thinning — 
" Hold I " said the Squire, " I pray you hold . 
Who Peter was let that be told. 
And start from the beginning." 

" A Potter, Sir, he was by trade,** 



Said I, becoming quite collected ; 
" And wheresoever he appeared, 
Full twenty times was Peter feared 
For once that Peter was respected. 

He, two-and-thirty years or more, 
Had been a wild and woodland rover, 
Had heard the Atlantic surges roar 
On farthest Cornwall's rocky shore. 
And trod the cliffs of Dover. 

And he had seen Caernarvon's towers. 
And well he knew the spire of Sarum , 
And he had been where Lincoln bell 
Flings o'er the fen its ponderous knell, 
Its far-renowned alarum ! 

At Doncaster, at York, and Leeds, 
And merry Carlisle had he been ; 
And all along the Lowlands fair, 
All through the bonny shire of Ayr — 
And far as Aberdeen. 



300 Wordsworth's poems. 

And he had been at Inverness ; 

And Peter, by the mountain rills. 

Had danced his round with Highland lasses ; 

And he had lain beside his asses 

On lofty Cheviot Hills: 

And he had trudged through Yorkshire daieB, 
Amo^^ the rocks and winding scars; 
Where deep and low the hamlets lie 
Beneath their little patch of sky 
And little lot of stars : 

And all along the indented coast, 
Bespattered with the salt-sea foam ; 
Where'er a knot of houses lay 
On headland, or in hollow bay; — 
Sure never man like him did roam . 

As well might Peter, in the Fleet, 

Have been fast bound, a begging Debtor;—- 

He travelled here, he travelled there; — 

But not the value of a hair 

Was heart or head the better. 

He roved among the vales and streams, 
In the green wood and hollow dell ; 
They were his dwellings night and day, — 
But Nature ne'er could find the way 
Into the heart of Peter Bell. 

In vain, through every changeful year, 
Did Nature lead him as before ; 
A primrose by a river's brim 
A yellow primrose was to him 
And it was nothina- more 



Wordsworth's poems. 301 

Small change it made in Peter's heart 
To see hi# gentle panniered train 
With more than vernal pleasure feeding. 
Where'er the tender grass was leading 
Its earliest green along the lane. 

In vain, through water, earth, and air, 
The soul of happy sound was spread, 
When Peter, on some April morn, 
Beneath the broom or budding thorn, 
Made the warm earth his lazy bed. 

At noon, when, by the forest's edge, 
He lay beneath the branches high, 
The soft blue sky did never melt 
Into his heart, — he never felt 
The witchery of the soft blue sky! 

On a fair prospect some have looked 
And felt, as I have heard them say. 
As if the moving time had been 
A thing as steadfast as the scene 
On which they gazed themselves away. 

Within the Breast of Peter Bell 
These silent raptures found no place: 
He was a Carl as wild and rude 
As ever hue-and-cry pursued. 
As ever ran a felon's race. 

Of all that lead a lawless life. 
Of all that love their lawless lives. 
In city or in village small, 
He was the wildest far of all ; 
He had a dozen wedded wives. 
26 



302 Wordsworth's poems. 

Nay, start not ! — wedded wives — and twelve 
But how one wife could e'er comS near him, 
In simple truth I cannot tell ; 
For, be it said of Peter Bell, 
To see him was to fear him. 

Though Nature could not touch his heart 
By lovely forms, and silent weather, 
And tender sounds, yet you might see 
At once, that Peter Bell and she 
Had often been together. 

A savage wildness round him hung 
As of a dweller out of doors ; 
In his whole figure and his mien 
A savage character was seen 
Of mountains and of dreary moors. 

To all the unshaped half-human thoughts 

Which solitary Nature feeds 

'Mid summer storms or winter's ice, 

Had Peter joined whatever vice 

The cruel city breeds. 

His face was keen as is the wind 
That cuts along the hawthorn fence ; 
Of courage you saw little .there, 
But, in its stead, a medley air 
Of cunning and of impudence. 

He had a dark and sidelong walk, 
And long and slouching was his gait ; 
Beneath his looks so bare and bold. 
You might perceive, his spirit cold 
Was playing with some inward bait 



Wordsworth's poems. JO.i 

flis forehead wrinkled was and furred 
A work, one half of which was done 
By thinking of his ivfiens and hoivs ; 
And half, by knitting of his brows 
Beneath the glaring* sun. 

There was a hardness in his cheek, 
There was a hardness in his eye, 
As if the man had fixed his face, 
In many a solitary place, 
Against the wind and open sky ! 

One night, (and now my little Bess ! 
We've reached at last the promised Tale ; ) 
One beautiful November night, 
When the full moon was shining bright 
Upon the rapid river Swale, 

Along the river's winding banks 
Peter was travelling all alone ; — 
Whether to buy or sell, or led 
By pleasure running in his head, 
To me was never known. 

He trudged along through copse and br^itcj, 
He trudged along o'er hill and dale ! 
Nor for the moon cared he a tittle, 
And for the stars he cared as little, 
And for the murmuring river Swale. 

But, chancing to espy a path 
That promised to cut short the waj, 
As many a wiser man hath done, 
He left a trusty guide for one 
That might his steps betray. 



304 Wordsworth's poems. 

To a thick wood he soon is brought, 
Where cheerfully his course he weaves, 
And whistling loud may yet be hestrd, 
Though often buried like a bird 
Darkling among the boughs and leaves. 

But quickly Peter's mood is changed, 
And on he drives with cheeks that burn 
In downright fury, and in wrath — 
There's little sign the treacherous path 
Will to the road return ! 

The path grows dim and dimmer still; 
Now up — now down — the Rover wends 
With all the sail that he can carry, 
Till brought to a deserted quarry — 
And there the pathway ends. 

He paused — for shadows of strange shape, 
Massy and black, before him lay ; 
But through the dark, and through the cold, 
And through the yawning fissures old, 
Did Peter boldly press his way. 

Right through the quarry; — and behold 
A scene of soft and lovely hue ! 
Where blue, and gray, and tender green. 
Together make as sweet a scene 
As ever human eye did view. 

Beneath the clear blue sky he saw 
A little field of meadow ground; 
But field or meadow name it not; 
Call it of earth a small green plot» 
With rocks encompassed round 



worwsworth's poems. 305 

The Swale flowed under the gray rocks, 
But he flowed quiet and unseen; — 
You need a strong and stormy gale 
To bring the noises of the Swale 
To that green spot, so calm and green ! 

And is there no one dwelling here, 

No hermit with his beads and glass? 

And does no little cottage look 

Upon this soft and fertile nook ? 

Does no one live near this green grass? — 

Across the deep and quiet spot 
Is Peter driving through the grass — 
And now he is among the trees ; 
When, turning round his head, he sees 
A solitary Ass, 

" A prize," cried Peter, stepping back 
To spy about him far and near ; 
There's not a single house in sight, 
No woodman's hut, no cottage light — 
Peter, you need not fear! 

There's nothing to be seen but woods, 
And rocks that spread a hoary gleam. 
And this one beast that from the bed 
Of the green ffieadow hangs his head 
Over the silent stream. 

His head is with a halter bound ; 
The halter seizing, Peter leapt 
Upon the Creature's back, and plied 
With ready heel his shaggy side ; 
But still the Ass his station kepti 
26* 



30(j Wordsworth's poems. 

" What's this ? '* cried Peter, brandishing 
A new-peeled saplin^r ; — though I deem 
This threat was understood full well, 
Firm, as before, the Sentinel 
Stood by the silent stream. 

Then Peter gave a sudden jerk, 
A jerk that from a dungeon flooi 
Would have pulled up an iron ring; 
But still the heavy-headed Thing 
Stood just as he had stood before ! 

Quoth Peter, leaping from his seat, 
" There is some plot against me laid ; " 
Once more the little meadow ground 
And all the hoary cliffs around 
He cautiously surveyed. 

All, all is silent — rocks and woods, 
All still and silent — far and near ! 
Only the Ass, with motion dull 
Upon the pivot of his skull 
Turns round his long left ear. 

Thought Peter, What can mean all thin? 
Some ugly witchcraft must be here ! 
Once more the Ass with motion dull, 
Upon the pivot of his skull 
Turned round his long left ear. 

Suspicion ripened into drt ad ; 
Yet with deliberate action slow. 
His staff high-raising, in the pride 
Of skill, upon the sounding hide. 
He dealt a sturdy blow. 



WORDSWORTH S POEMP. 

What followed ? — yielding to the shock, 
The Ass, as if to take his ease, 
In quiet uncomplaining mood. 
Upon the spot where he had stood. 
Dropped gently down upon his knees. 

And then upon his side he fell, 
And by the river's brink did lie ; 
And, as he lay like one that mourned, 
The Beast on his tormentor turned 
His shining hazel eye. 

'Twas but one mild reproachful look, 
A look more tender than severe ; 
And straight in sorrow, not in dread, 
He turned the eye-bail in his head 
Towards the river deep and clear. 

Upon the beast the sapling rings, — 

His lank sides heaved, his limbs they stirred ; 

He gave a groan — and then another. 

Of that which went before the brother, 

And then he gave a third. 

And Peter halts to gather breath, 
And, while he halts, was clearly shown 
(What he before in part had seen) 
How gaunt the Creature was, and lean, 
Yea, wasted to a skeleton. 

With legs stretched out and stiff he lay: 
No word of kind commiseration 
Fell at the sight from Peter's tongue ; 
With hard contempt his heart was wrung. 
With hatred and vexation. 



307 



308 Wordsworth's poems. 

The meagre beast lay still as death — 
And Peter's lips with fury quiver — 
Quoth he, " You little mulish dog, 
I'll fling your carcass like a log 
Head-foremost down the river ! " 

An impious oath confirmed the threat: 
That instant, while outstretched he lay 
To all the echoes, south and north, 
And east and west, the Ass sent forth 
A loud and piteous bray ! 

This outcry, on the heart of Peter, 
Seems like a note of joy to strike, — 
Joy at the heart of Peter knocks; 
But in the echo of the rocks 
Was something Peter did not like. 

Whether to cheer his coward breast, 
Or that he could not break the chain. 
In this serene and solemn hour. 
Twined round him by demoniac power, 
To the blind work he turned again. 

Among the rocks and winding crags — 

Among the mountains far away — 

Once more the Ass did lengthen out 

More ruefully an endless shout. 

The long dry see-saw of this horrible bray. 

What is there now in Peter's heart? 

Or whence the might of this strange sound? 

The moon uneasy looked and dimmer, 

The broad blue heavens appeared to glimmer 

And the rocks staggered all around. 



WORDS wokth's poems. 30J) 

From Peter's hand the sapling dropped 
Threat has he none to execute — 
" If any one should come and see 
That I am here, they'll think," quoth he, 
"I'm helping this poor dying brute." 

He scans the Ass from limb to limb 
And Peter now uplifts his eyes ; 
Steady the moon doth look, and clear 
And like themselves the rocks appear, 
And quiet are the skies. 

Whereat, in resolute mood, once more, 
He stoops the Ass's neck to seize — 
Foul purpose, quickly put to flight! 
For in the pool a startling sight 
Meets him. beneath the shadowy trees 

Is it the moon's distorted face ? 
The ghost-like image of a cloud ? 
Is it the gallows there portrayed ? 
Is Peter of himself afraid ? 
Is it a coffin, — or a shroud ? 

A grisly idol hewn in stone ? 
Or imp from witch's lap let fall ? 
Or a gay ring of shining fairies, 
Such as pursue their brisk vagaries 
In sylvan bower, or haunted hall.? 

Is it a fiend that to a stake 

Of fire his desperate self is tethering ? 

Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell 

In solitary ward or cell, 

Ten thousand miles from all his brethren.^ 



310 Wordsworth's pokm9. 

Never did pulse so quickly throb, 
And never heart so loudly panted ; 
He looks, he cannot choose but look , 
Like one intent upon a book — 
A book that is enchanted. 

Ah, well-a-day for Peter Bell ! — 
He will be turned to iron soon, 
Meet Statue for the court of Fear! 
His hat is up — and every hair 
Bristles — and whitens in the moon ! 

He looks — he ponders — looks again ; 
He sees a motion — hears a groan ; — 
His eyes will burst — his heart will break — 
He gives a loud and frightful shriek, 
And drops, a senseless weight, as if his life wcrti 
flown. 



PART SECOND. 

We left our Hero in a trance. 
Beneath the alders, near the river ; 
The Ass is by the river side, 
And, where the feeble breezes glide, 
Upon the stream the moonbeams quiver 

A happy respite ! — but at length 
He feels the glimmering of the moon ; 
Wakes with glazed eye, and feebly sighing 
To sink, perhaps, where he is lying, 
Into a second swoon ! 



Wordsworth's poems. 3li 

He lifts his head — he sees his staff; 
He touches — 'tis to him a treasure. 
Faint recollection seems to tell 
That he is yet where mortals dwell — 
A thought received with languid pleasure 

His head upon his elbow propped, 
Becoming less and less perplexed, 
Skyward he looks — to rock and wood - 
And then — upon the glassy flood 
His wandering eye is fixed. 

Thought he, That is the face of one 
In his last sleep securely bound! 
So toward the stream his head he bent, 
And dov/nward thrust his staff, intent 
The river's depth to sound. 

J^ow — like a tempest-shattered bark. 
That overwhelmed and prostrate lies. 
And in a moment to the verge 
Is lifted of a foaming surge — 
Full suddenly the Ass doth rise ! 

His staring bones all shake with joy — 
And close by Peter's side he stands : 
While Peter o'er the river bends, 
The little Ass his neck extends, 
And fondly licks his hands. 

Such life is in the Ass's eyes — 
Such life is in his limbs and ears — 
That Peter Bell, if he* had been 
The veriest coward ever seen, 
Must now have thrown aside his fears. 



312 Wordsworth's poems. 

The Ass looks on — and to his work 
Is Peter quietly resigned; 
He touches here — he touches there — 
And now among the dead man's hair 
His sapling Peter has entwined. 

He pulls — and looks — and pulls again; 
And he whom the poor Ass had lost, 
The Man who had been four days dead, 
Head-foremost from the river's bed 
Uprises — like a ghost ! 

And Peter draws him to dry land ; 
And through the brain of Peter pass 
Some poignant twitches, fast and faster, 
"No doubt," quoth he, "he is the Master 
Of this poor miserable Ass ! " 

The meagre Shadow all this while — 
What aim is his ? what is he doing ? 
His sudden fit of joy is flown, — 
He on his knees hath laid him down, 
As if he were his grief renewing. 

But no — his purpose and his wish 
The Suppliant shows, well as he can 5 
Thought Peter, Whatsoe'er betide, 
I'll go, and he my way will guide 
To the cottage of the drowned man. 

This hopirg, Peter boldly mounts 
Upon the pleased and thankful Ass ; 
And then, without a moment's stay, 
That earnest Creature turned away 
Leaving the body on the grass. 



Wordsworth's poems. 31. 

Intent upon his faithful watch, 
The Beast four days and nights had past; 
A sweeter meadow ne'er was seen. 
And there the Ass four days had been, 
Nor ever once did break his fast. 

Ye£ firm his step, and stout his heart^ ; 
The mead is crossed — the quarry's mouth 
Is reached — but there the trusty guide 
Into a thicket turns aside, 
And takes his way towards the south. 

When hark a burst of doleful sound ! 
And Peter honestly might say, 
The like came never to his ears. 
Though he has been, full thirty years, 
A Rover — night and day ! 

'Tis not a plover of the moors, 

'Tis not a bittern of the fen ; 

Nor can it be a barking fox. 

Nor night-bird chambered in the rocks, 

Nor wild-cat in a woody glen! 

The Ass is startled, and stops short 
Right in the middle of the thicket; 
And PeteT, wont to whistle loud, 
Whether alone or in a crowd. 
Is silent as a silent cricket 

What ails you now, my little Bess ? 
Well may you tremble and look grave! 
This cry, that rings along the wood — 
This cry, that floats adown the flood. 
Comes from the entrance of a cave! 
27 



314 Wordsworth's poems. 

I see a blooming Wood-boy there, 
And, if I had the power to say- 
How sorrowful the wanderer is, 
Your heart would be as sad as his,. 
Till you had kissed his tears away. 

Holding a hawthorn branch in hand, 
All bright with berries ripe and red 
Into the cavern's mouth he peeps — 
Thence back into the moonlight creeps 
What seeks the boy ? — the silent dead — 

His father ! — Him doth he require, 
Whom he hath sought with fruitless pains. 
Among the rocks, behind the trees. 
Now creeping on his hands and knees, 
Now running o'er the open plains. 

And hither is he come at last. 
When he through such a day has gone, 
By this dark cave to be distrest 
Like a poor bird — her plundered nest 
Hovering around with dolorous moan . 

Of that intense and piercing cry 
The listening Ass conjectures well; 
Wild as it is, he there can read 
Some intermingled notes that plead 
With touches irresistible ; 

But Peter, when he saw the Ass 
Not only stop but turn, and change 
The cherished tenor of his pace. 
That lamentable noise to chase, 
It wrought in him conviction strange 



Wordsworth's poems. 315 

A faith that, for the dead man's sake 
And this poor slave who loved him well, 
Vengeance upon his head will fall, 
Some visitation worse than all 
Which ever till this night befel. 

Meanwhile the Ass to reach his home 
Is striving stoutly as he may ; 
But, while he climbs the woody hill. 
The cry grows weak, and weaker still, 
And now at last it dies away. 

So with his freight the Creature turns 
Into a gloomy grove of beech, 
Along the shade with footstep true 
Descending slowly, till the two 
The open moonlight reach. 

And there, along a narrow dell, 
A fair smooth pathway you discern, 
A length of green and open road — 
As if it from a fountain flowed — 
Winding away between the fern. 

The rocks that tower on either side 

Build up a wild fantastic scene ; 

Temples like those among the Hindoos. 

And mosques, and spires, and abbey-windowg, 

And castles all with ivy green ! 

And, while the Ass pursues his way 

Along this solitary dell. 

As pensively his steps advance, 

The mosques and spires change countenance, 

And look at Peter Bell ! 



316 worpsworth's poems. 

That unintelligible cry 
Hath left him high in preparation, 
Convinced that he, or sojn or late, 
This very night will meet his fate — 
And so he sits in expectation ! 

The strenuous Animal hath clomb 

With the green path, — and now he wends 

Where, shining like the smoothest sea, 

In undisturbed immensity 

A level plain extends. 

But whence that faintly-rustling sound 
Which, all too long, the pair hath chased? 
— A dancing leaf is close behind. 
Like plaything for the sportive wind 
Upon that solitary waste. 

When Peter spies the withered leaf. 
It yields no cure to his distress; 
"Where there is not a bush or tree. 
The very leaves they follow me — 
So huge hath been my wickedness ! " 

To a close lane they now are come. 
Where, as before, the enduring Ass 
Moves on without a moment's stop. 
Nor once turns round his head to crop 
A bramble leaf or blade of grass. 

Between the hedges as they go, 
The white dust sleeps upon the lane; 
And, Peter, ever and anon 
Back looking, sees, upon a stone 
Or in the dust, a crimson stain. 



Wordsworth's poems. 1^17 

A stt.in — as of a drop of blood, 

By moonlight made more faint and wan — 

Ha ! why this comfortless despair ? 

He knows not how the blood comes tiere, 

And Peter is a wicked man. 

At length he spies a bleeding wound, 
Where he had struck the Creature's head ; 
He sees tlie blood, knows what it is, — 
A glimpse of sudden joy was his. 
But then it quickly fled : 

Of him whom sudden death had seized 

He thought, — of thee, O faithful Ass! 

And once again those darting pains, 

As meteors shoot through heaven's wide plamSj 

Pass through his bosom, and repass ! 



PART THIRD. 

PvE heard of one, a gentle Soul, 
Though given to sadness and to gloom. 
And for the fact will vouch, — one night 
It chanced that by a taper's light 
This man was reading in his room; 

Bending, as you or I might bend 
At night o'er any pious book, 
When sudden blackness overspread 
The snow-white page on which he read. 
And made the good man round huji look. 
27- 



318 



WORDSWORTH S POEMS. 



The chamber walls were dark all round, — 
And to his book he turned ag-ain; 

— The light had left the good man's taper 
And formed itself upon the paper 

Into large letters, bright and plain ! 

The godly book was in his hand — 
And, on the page, more black than coal, 
Appeared, set forth in strange array, 
A word — which to his dying day 
Perplexed the good man's gentle soul. 

The ghostly word, full plainly seen. 
Did never from his lips depart; 
But he hath said, poor gentle wight ! 
It brought full many a sin to light 
Out of the bottom of his heart 

Dread Spirits! to torment the good 
Why wander from your course so far, 
Disordering color, form, and stature ! 

— Let good men feel the soul cf Nature 
And see things as they are. 

I know you, potent Spirits ! well. 
How, with the feeling and the ser.se 
Playing, ye govern foes or friends, 
Yoked to your will, for fearful ends — 
And this I speak in reverence ! 

But might I give advice to you. 
Whom in my fear I love so well, 
From men of pensive virtue go, 
Dread Beings ! and your empire show 
On hearts like that of Peter Bell. 



woRus worth's poems. [iVA 

Your presence I have often felt 

In darkness and the stormy night ; 

And well I know, if need there be, 

Ye can put forth your agency 

When earth is cahii, and heaven is bright. 

Then, coming from the wayward world, 
That powerful world in which ye dwell, 
Come, spirits of the Mind ! and try 
To-night, beneath the moonlight sky, 
What may be done with Feter Bell ! 

— O would that some more skilful voice 
My further labor might prevent ! 
Kind Listeners, that around me sit, 
I fell that I am all unfit 
For such high argument. 

I've played and danced with my narration — 

I loitered long ere I began: 

Ye waited then on my good pleasure, — 

Pour out indulgence, still, in measure 

As liberal as you can ! 

Our travellers, ye remember well, 
Are thridding a sequestered lane ; 
And Peter many tricks is trying, 
And many anodynes applying. 
To ease his conscience of its pain. 

By this his heart is lighter far; 
And, finding that he can account 
So clearly for that crimson stain, 
His evil spirit up again 
Does like an empty bucket mount 



320 Wordsworth's poems. 

And Peter is a deep logician 

Who hath no lack of wit mercurial ; 

" Blood drops — leaves rustle — yet," quoth he, 

" This poor man never, but for me, 

Could have had Christian burial. 

And, say the best you can, 'tis plain, 
That here hath been some wicked dealing ; 
No doubt the devil in me wrought ; 
I'm not the man who could have thought 
An Ass like this was worth the stealing!" 

So from his pocket Peter takes 
His shining horn tobacco-box ; 
And, in a light and earless way, 
As men who with their purpose play, 
Upon the lid he knocks. 

Let them whose voice can stop the clouds 

Whose cunning eye can see the wind — 

Tell to a curious world the cause 

Why, making here a sudden pause, 

The Ass turned round his head — and grinned. 

Appalling process ! — I have marked 
The like on heath — in lonely wood, 
And, verily, have seldom met 
A spectacle more^ideous — yet 
It suited Peter's present mood; 

And, grinning in his turn, his teeth 
He in jocose defiance showed — 
When, to confound his spiteful mirth, 
A murmur, pent within the earth, 
In the dead earth beneath the road, 



Wordsworth's poems. »i2l 

Rolled audibly ! — it swept along — 
A muflied noise — a rumbling oound! 
'Twas by a troop of miners made, 
Plying- with gunpoAvder their trade, 
Some twenty fathoms under ground. 

Small cause of dire effect ! — for, surely, 
If ever mortal, King or Cotter, 
Believed that earth was charged to quake 
And yawn for his unworthy sake, 
'Twas Peter Bell the Potter. 

But, as an oak in breathless air 

Will stand though to the centre hewn; 

Or as the weakest things, if frost 

Have stiffened them, maintain their post; 

So he, beneath the gazing moon ! — 

Meanwhile the pair have reached a spot 
Where, sheltered by a rocky cove, 
A little chapel stands alone, » 
With greenest ivy overgrown. 
And tufted with an ivy grove. 

Dying insensibly away 

From human thoughts and purposes. 

The building seems, wall, roof, and towefj 

To bow to some transforming power, 

And blend with the surrounding trees. 

Deep-sighing as he passed along, 
Quoth Peter, "In the shire of Fife, 
*Mid such a ruin, following still 
From land to land a lawless will. 
I married my sixth wife ! " 



322 WORDSWORill's POEMS. 

The unheeding Ass moves slowly on. 
And now is passing by an inn 
Brim-full of a carousing crew, 
That make, with curses not a few, 
An uproar and a drunken din. 

I cannot well express the thoughts 
Which Peter in those noises found ; — 
A stifling power compressed his frame, 
And a confusing darkness came 
Over that dull and dreary sound. 

For well did Peter know the sound; 
The language of those drunken joys 
To him, a jovial soul, I ween, 
But a few hours ago, had been, 
A gladsome and a welcome noise. 

JVbw, turned adrift into the past, 
He finds no solace in his course ; 
Like planet-stticken men of yore, 
He trembles, smitten to the core 
By strong compunction and remorse. 

But, more than all, his heart is Rtung 
To think of one, almost a child ; 
A sweet and playful. Highland girl, 
\h light and beauteous as a squirrel, 
As beauteous and as wild ! 

A lonely house her dwelling was, 
A cottage in a heathy dell ; 
And she put on her gown of green, 
.\nd left her mother at sixteen, 
And followed Peter BelL 



Wordsworth's poems. 323 

But many good and pious thoughts 

Had she ; and, in the kirk to pray, 

Two long Scotch miles, through rain or snow. 

To kirk she had been used to go, 

Twice every Sabbath-day. 

And, when she followed Peter Bell, 
It was to lead an honest life ; 
For he, with tongue not used to falter, 
Had pledged his troth before the altar 
To love her as his wedded wife. 

A mother's liope is hers ; — but soon 
She drooped and pined like one forlorn ; 
From Scripture she a name did borrow ; 
Benoni, or the child of sorrow, 
She called her babe unborn. 

For she liad learned how Peter lived, 
And took it in most grievous part; 
She to the very bone was worn. 
And, ere that little child was born, 
Died of a broken heart. 

And now the Spirits of the Mind 
Are busy with poor Peter Bell ; 
Upon the rights of visual sense 
Usurping, with a prevalence 
More terrible than magic spell. 

Close by a brake of flowering furze 
(Above it shivering aspens play) 
He sees an unsubstantial creature, 
His very self in form and feature, 
Not four yards from the broad liighway 



324 Wordsworth's poems. 

And stretched beneath the furze he 
The Highland girl — it is no other ; 
And hears her crying as she cried 
The very moment that she died, 
" My mother ! oh, my mother ! " 



The sweat pours down from Peter's face, 
So grievous is his heart's contrition : 
With agony his eye-balls ache. 
While he beholds by the furze-brake 
This miserable vision ! 

Calm is the well-deserving brute, 
His peace, hath no offence betrayed ; 
But now, while down that slope he wends, 
A voice to Peter's ear ascends, 
Resounding from the woody glade : 

The voice, though clamorous as a horn 

Reechoed by a naked rock. 

Is from that tabernacle — List ! 

Within, a fervent Methodist 

Is preaching to no heedless flock. 

" Repent ! repent ' " he cries aloud, 
" While yet ye may find mercy ; — strive 
To love the Lord with all your might; 
Turn to him, seek him day and night, 
And save your souls alive I 

Repent! repent! though ye have gone, 
Through paths of wickedness and woe. 
After the Babylonian harlot. 
And, though your sins be red as scarlet, 
They shall be white as snow ! " 



Wordsworth's poems. 335 

Even as he passed the door, these words 
Did plainiy come to Peter's- ears ; 
And thev such joyful tidings were, 
The joy was more tlian he could bear! — 
He melted into tears. 

Sweet tears of hope and tenderness ! 
And fast they fell, a plenteous shower ! 
His nerves, his sinews seemed to melt; 
Through all his iron frame was felt 
A gentle, a relaxing power ! 

Each fibre of his frame was weak ; 
Weak all the animal within ; 
But, in its helplessness, grew mild 
And gentle as an infant child. 
An infant that has known no sin. 

'Tis said that, through prevailing grace. 
He, not unmoved, did notice now 
The cross upon thy shoulders scored, 
Meek Beast ! in memory of the Lord 
To whom all human-kind shall bow ; 

In memory of that solemn day 
When Jesus humbly deigned to ride, 
Entering the proud Jerusalem, 
By an immeasurable stream 
Of shouting people deified ! 

Meanwhile the persevering As3. 
Towards a gate m open view, 
Turns up a narrow lane ; his chest 
Against the yielding gate he pressed. 
And quietly passed through. 
28 



326 Wordsworth's poems*. 

And up the stony lane he goes; 
No ghost more softly ever trod ; 
Among- the stones and pebbles, he 
Sets down his hoofs inaudibly, 
As if with felt his hoofs were shod. 

Along the lane the trusty Ass 
Had gone two hundred yards, not more ; 
When to a lonely house he came ; 
He turned aside towards the same, 
And stopped before the door. 

Thought Peter, 'Tis the poor man's home ' 
He listens — not a sound is heard 
Save from the trickling household rill ; 
But, stepping o'er the cottage-sill, 
Forthwith a little Girl appeared. 

She to the Meeting-house was bound, 
In hope some tidings there to gather; — 
No glimpse it is — no doubtful gleam — 
She saw — and uttered with a scream, 
" My father ! here's my father ! " 

The very word was plainly heard. 
Heard plainly by the wretched Mother 
Her joy was like a deep affright ; 
And forth she rushed into the light, 
And saw it was another ! 

And instantly, upon the earth. 
Beneath the full moon shining bright, 
Close to the Ass feet she fell ; 
At the same moment Peter Bell 
Dismounts in most unhappy plight 



Wordsworth's poems. 327 

As he beheld the Woman lie 
Breathless and motionless, the mind 
Of Peter sadly was confused; 
But, though to such demands unused, 
And helpless almost as the blind, 

He raised her up; and, while he held 
Her body propped against his knee, 
The Woman waked — and when she spied 
The poor Ass standing by her side. 
She moaned most bitterly. 

" Oh ! God be praised — my heart's .it ease 
For he is dead — I know it well ! " 
— At this she wept a bitter flood ; 
And, in the best way that he could. 
His tale did Peter tell. 

He trembles — he is pale as death — 
His voice is weak with perturbation — 
He turns aside his head — he pauses ; 
Poor Peter, from a thousand causes, 
Is crippled sore in his narration. 

At length she learned how he espied 
The Ass in that small meadow ground 
And that her husband now lay dead, 
Beside that luckless river's bed 
(n which he had been drowned. 

A piercing look the Sufferer cast 
Upon the Beast that near her stands; 
She sees 'tis he, that 'tis the same ; 
She calls the poor Ass by his name, 
And wrings, and wrings her hands. 



328 Wordsworth's poems. 

" O wretched loss — untimely stroke ' 
If he had died upon his bed ! 
— He knew not one forewarning paia 
Ho never will come home again — 
Is dead — for ever dead ! " 

Beside the Woman Peter stands ; 
His heart is opening more and more ; 
A holy sense pervades his mind; 
He feels what he for human kind 
Had never felt before. 

At length, by Peter's arm sustained, 
The Woman rises from the ground — 
"Oh, mercy! something must be done— - 
My little Rachael, you must run, — 
Some willing neighbor must be found. 

" Make haste, my little Rachael, do, — 
The first you meet with, bid him come ; 
Ask him to lend his horse to-night ; 
And this good Man, whom Heaven requite, 
Will help to bring the body home." 

Away goes Rachael weeping loud ; 
An Infant waked by her distress, 
Makes in the house a piteous cry ; 
And Peter hears the Mother sigh, 
" Seven are they, and all fatherless ! " 

And now is Peter taught to feel 
That man's heart is a holy thing; 
And Nature, through a world of death, 
Breathes into him a second breath, 
More searching than the breath of spring. 



WORDSWORTH S POEMS. 

Upon a stone the Woman sits 

In agony of silent grief — 

From his own thoughts did Peter start; 

He longs to press her to his heart, 

From love that cannot find relief. 

But roused, as if through every limb 
Had passed a sudden shock of dread, 
The Mother o'er the threshold flies, 
And up the cottage stairs she hies, 
And to the pillow gives her burning head. 

And Peter turns his steps aside 
Into a shade of darksome trees, 
Where he sits down, he knows not how, 
With his hands pressed against his brow, 
His elbows on his tremulous knees. 

There, self-involved, does Peter sit 
Until no sign of life he makes, 
As if his mind were sinking deep 
Through years that have been long asleep' 
The trance is past away — he wakes, — 

He lifts his head — and sees the Ass 
Yet standing in the clear moonshine ; 
" When shall I be els good as thou ? 
Oh! would, poor beast, that I had now 
A heart but half as good as thine!" 

— But He — who deviously hath sought 
His Father through the lonesome woods, 
Hath sought, proclaiming to the ear 
Of night his inward grief and fear — 
He comes — escaped from fields and floods, 
28* 



329 



330 Wordsworth's poems. 

With weary pace is drawing nigh — 
He sees the Ass, — and nothing living. 
Had ever such a fit of joy 
As hath this little orphan Boy, 



Towards the gentle Ass ne springs, 
And up about his neck he climbs ; 
In loving words he talks to him, 
He kisses, kisses face and limb, — 
He kisses him a thousand times ! 

This Peter sees, while in the shade 
He stood beside the cottage-door ; 
And Peter Bell, the ruffian wild. 
Sobs loud, he sobs even like a child,— 
" Oh ! God, I can endure no more ! '' 

— Here ends my Tale : — for in a trice 
Arrived a neighbor with his horse ; 
Peter went forth with him straightway ; 
And, with due care, ere break of day, 
Together they brought back the Corse. 

And many years did this poor Ass, 
Whom once it was my luck to see 
Cropping the shrubs of Leming-Lane, 
Help by his labor to maintain 
The Widow and her family. 

And Peter Bell, who, till that night. 
Had been the wildest of his clan, 
Forsook his crimes, renounced his folly, 
And, after ten months' melancholy, 
"Became a good and honest man. 



THE IDIOT BOY 



THE IDIOT BOY. 



'Tis eight o'clock, — a clear March night, 
The Moon is up, — the Sky is blue, 
The Owlet, in the moonlight air, 
Shouts, from nobody knows where ; 
He lengthens out his lonely shout, 
Halloo ! halloo ! a long halloo ! 

— Why bustle thus about your door, 
What means this bustle, Betty Foy ? 
Why are you in this mighty fret? 
And why on horseback have you set 
Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy ? 

There's scarce a soul that's out of bed, 
Good Betty, put him down again ; 
His lips with joy they burr at you ; 
But, Betty ! what has he to do 
With stitrup, saddle, or with rein? 

Bui Betty's bent on her intent ; 
For ner good neighbor, Susan Gale, 
Old Susan, she who dwells alone, 
Is sick and makes a piteous moan, 
As if her very li^e would fail. 



S34 Wordsworth's poems. 

There's not a house within a mile, 
No hand to help them in distress ; 
Old Susan lies abed in pain, 
And sorely puzzled are the twain, 
For what she ails they cannot guess. 

And Betty's Husband's at the wood. 
Where by the week he doth abide, 
A woodman in the distant vale ; 
There's none to help poor Susan Gale; 
What must be done? what will betide? 

And Betty from the lane has fetched 
Her Pony, that is mild and good, 
Whether he be in joy or pain. 
Feeding at will along the lane, 
Or bringing fagots from the wood. 

And he is all in travelling trim, — 
And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy 
Has up upon the saddle set 
(The like was never heard of yet) 
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. 

And he must post without delay 
Across the bridge and through the dale. 
And by the church, and o'er the down, 
To bring a Doctor from the town. 
Or she will die, old Susan Gale. 

There is no need of boot or spur. 

There is no need of whip or wand ; 

For Johnny has his holly-bough, 

And with a hurly-burly now 

He shakes the green bough in his hand. 



Wordsworth's poems. lV,in 

And Betty o'er and o'er has told 
The Boy, who is her best delight, 
Both what to follow, what to shun, 
What do, and what to leave undone, 
How turn to left, and how to right. 

And Betty's most especial charge, 
Was, " Johnny ! Johnny ! mind that you 
Come home again, nor stop at all, — 
Come home again, whate'er befal. 
My Johnny, do, I pray you do." 

To this did Johnny answer make. 
Both with his head and with his hand, 
And proudly shook the bridle too; 
And then! his words were not a few. 
Which Betty well could understand. 

And now that Johnny is just going, 
Though Betty's in a mighty flurry. 
She gently pats the Pony's side. 
On which her Idiot Boy must ride, 
And seems no longer in a hurry. 

But when the Pony moved his legs, 
Oh ! then for the poor Idiot Boy ! 
For joy he cannot hold the bridle. 
For joy his head and heels are idle, 
He's idle all for very joy. 

And while the Pony moves his legs. 
In Johnny's left hand you may see 
The green bough motionless and dead' 
The Moon that shines above his head 
Is not more still and mute than he. 



336 Wordsworth's poems. 

His heart it was so full of glee, 
That till full fifty yards were gone, 
He quite forgot his holly whip, 
And all his skill in horsemanship — 
Oh! happy, happy, happy John. 

And while the Mother, at the door, 
Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erflowa ; 
Proud of herself, and proud of him, 
She sees him in^ his travelling trim, 
How quietly her Johnny goes. 

The silence of her Idiot Boy, 
What hope it sends to Betty's heart ! 
He's at the Guide-post — he turns right, 
She watches till he's out of sight, 
And Betty will not then depart. 

Burr, burr — now Johnny's lips they burr 
As loud as any mill, or near it ; 
Meek as a lamb the Pony moves, 
And Johnny makes the noise he loves, 
And Betty listens, glad to hear it. 

Away she hies to Susan Gale : 
Her messenger's in merry tune; 
The Owlets hoot, the Owlets curr. 
And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr 
As on he goes bei eath the Moon. 

His Steed and He right we.l agree, 
For of this Pony there's a rumor, 
That, should he lose his eyes and ears, 
And should he live a thousand years, 
He never will be out of humor. 



Wordsworth's poems. 337 

But then he is a horse that thinks! 
And when he thinks his pace is slack; 
Now, though he knows poor Johnny well. 
Yet, for his life, he cannot tell 
What he has got upon his back. 

So through the moonlight lanes they go, 
And far into the moonlight dale, 
And by the church, and^'er the down. 
To bring a Doctor from the town. 
To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 

And Betty, now at .Susan's side. 

Is in the middle of her story, 

What comfort soon her Boy will bring, * 

With many a most diverting thing, 

Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory. 

And Betty, still at Susan's side. 
By this time is not quite so flurried: 
Demure with porringer and plate 
She sits, as if in Susan's fate 
Her life and soul were buried. 

But Betty, poor good Woman! she, 
You plainly in her face may read it, 
Could lend out of that moment's store 
Five years of happiness or more 
To any that might need it. 

But yet I guess that now and then 
With Betty all was not so well ; 
And to the road she turns her ears. 
And thence full many a sound she hears. 
Which she to Susan will not tell. 
29 



338 Wordsworth's poems. 

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans ; 
"As sure as there's a moon in heaven," 
Cries Betty, "he'll be baci again; 
They'll both be here — 'tis almost ten — 
Both will be here before eleven." 

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans ; 
The clock gives warning for eleven ; 
'Tis on the stroke — " He must be near,'* 
Quoth Betty, " and will soon be here. 
As sure as there's a moon in heaven." 

The clock is on the stroke of twelve, 

And Johnny is not yet in sight, 

— The Moon's in heaven, as Betty sees, 

But Betty is not quite at ease ; 

And Susan has a dreadful night. 

And Betty, half an hour ago, 
On Johnny vile reflections cast : 
" A little idle sauntering Thing ! " 
With other names, an endless string; 
But now that time is gone and past. 

And Betty's drooping at the heart. 
That happy time all past and gone, 
" How can it be he is so late ? 
The Doctor he has made him wait, 
Susan ! they'll both be here anon." 

And Susan's growing worse and worse, 
And Betty's in a sad quandary; 
And then there's nobody to say 
If she must go, or she must sta/ ' 
She's in a sad quandary. 



Wordsworth's poems. 339 

The deck is on the stroke of one ; 
But neither Doctor nor his Guide 
Appears along the moonlight road ; 
There's neither horse nor man abroad, 
And Betty's still at Susan's side. 

And Susan now begins to fear 
Of sad mischances not a few, 
That Johnny may perhaps be drowned, 
Or lost, perhaps, and never found ; 
Which they must both for ever rue. 

She prefaced half a hint of this 
With, " God forbid it should be true ! " 
At the first word that Susan said. 
Cried Betty, rising from the bed. 



I must be gone, I nwist away, 
Consider, Johnny's but half- wise ; 
Susan, we must take care of him. 
If he is hurt in life or limb" — 
"Oh God forbid!" poor Susan cries. 

" What can I do ? " says Betty, going, 
" What can I do to ease your pain ? 
Good Susan, tell me, and I'll stay ; 
I fear you're in a dreadful way. 
But I shall soon be back again." 

" Nay, Betty, go ! good Betty, go ! 
There's nothing that can ease my pain." 
Then off she hies ; but with a prayer 
That God poor Susan's life would spare 
Till she comes back ao-ain. 



340 Wordsworth's poems. 

So, through the moonlight lane she goes, 
And far into the moonlight dale ; 
And how she ran, and how she walked, 
And all that to herself she talked, 
Would surely be a tedious tale. 

In high and low, above, below, 
In great and small, in round and square, 
In tree and tower was Johnny seen, 
In brush and brake, in black and green, 
'Twas Johnny, Johnny, everywhere. 

The bridge is past — far in the dale; 
And now the thought torments her sore, 
Johnny perhaps his horse forsook. 
To hunt the moon within the brook. 
And never will be heard of more. 

Now is she high upon the down. 
Alone amid a prospect wide: 
There's neither Johnny nor his Horse 
Among the fern or in the gorse; 
There's neither Doctor nor his Guide. 

" Oh saints ! what is become of him ? 
Perhaps he's climbed into an oak. 
Where he will stay till he is dead; 
Or, sadly he has been misled. 
And joined the wandering gipsey-folk. 

"Or him that wicked Pony's carried 
To the dark cave, the goblin s hall ; 
Or in the castle he's pursuing 
Among the ghosts his own undoing; 
Or playing with the waterfall." 



Wordsworth's poems. 341 

At pDor old Susan then she railed, 
While to the town she posts away; 
" If Susan had not been so ill, 
Alas ! I should have had him still, 
My Johnny, till my dying day." 

Poor Betty, in this sad distemper, 
The Doctor's self could hardly spare ; 
Unworthy things she talked, and wild : 
Even he, of cattle the most mild, 
The Pony had his share. 

And now she's got into the town, 
And to the Doctor's door she hies ; 
'Tis silence all on every side ; 
The town so long, the town so wide. 
Is silent as the skies. 

And now she's at the Doctor's door. 
She lifts the knocker, — rap, rap, rap ; 
The Doctor at the casement shows 
His glimmering eyes that peep and doze ! 
And one hand rubs his old night-cap. 

"Oh, Doctor! Doctor! where's my Johnny r" 
" I'm here, — what is't you want with me ? " 
" Oh, Sir ! you know I'm Betty Foy, 
And I have lost my poor dear Boy ; 
You know him — him you often see ; 

" He's not so wise as some folks be." 

The devil take his wisdom ! " said 
The Doctor, looking somewhat grim, 
" What, Woman ! should I know of him ? " 
And, grumbling, he %vent back to bed. 
Q9* 



342 Wordsworth's poems. 

" Oh, woe is me ! Oh, woe is me . 
Here will I die; here w^U I die; 
I thought to find my lost one here, 
But he is neither far nor near, 
Oh ! what a wretched Mother 1 1 " 

She stops, she stands, she looks about; 

Which way to turn she cannot tell. 

Poor Betty ! it would ease her pain 

If she had heart to knock again ; 

— The clock strikes three — a dismal kneli ! 

Then up along the town she hies, 

No wonder if her senses fail. 

This piteous news so much it shocked her, 

She quite forgot to send the Doctor, 

To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 

And now she's high upon the down. 
And she can see a mile of road: 
" Oh, cruel ! I'm almost three-score ; 
Such night as this was ne'er before. 
There's not a single soul abroad." 

She listens, but she cannot hear 
The foot of horse, the voice of man ; 
The streams with softest sound are flowing, 
The grass you almost hear it growing, 
You hear it now, if e'er you can. 

The Owlets through the long blue night 
Are shouting to each other still : 
Fond lovers ! yet not quite hob nob, 
They lengthen out the tremulous sob 
That echoes far from hill to hill. 



Wordsworth's poems. 343 

Poor Betty now has lost all hope, 
Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin ; 
A green-grown pond she just has past, 
And from the brink she hurries fast. 
Lest she should drown herself therein. 

And now she sits her down and weeps; 

Such tears she never shed before; 

" Oh, dear, dear Pony ! my sweet joy ! 

Oh, carry back my Idiot Boy! 

And we will ne'er o'erload thee more." 

A thought is come into her head: 
" The Pony he is mild and good, 
And we have always used him well: 
Perhaps he's gone along the dell, 
And carried Johnny to the wood." 

Then up she springs as if on wings ; 
She thinks no more of deadly sin ; 
If Betty fifty ponds should see, 
The last of all her thoughts would be 
To drown herself therein. 

O Reader ! now that I might tell 
What Johnny and his Horse are doing i 
What they've been doing all this time, 
O, could I put it into rhyme, 
A most delightfii tale pursuing! 

Perhaps, and jio unlikely thought, 
He with his Pony now doth roam 
The cliifs and peaks so high that are, 
To lay his hands upon a star, 
And in his pocket bring it home 



344 Wordsworth's poems. 

Perhaps he's turned himself about, 
His face unto his horse's tail, 
And, still and mute, in wonder lost, 
All like a silent Horseman-Ghost, 
He travels on along the vale. 

And now, perhaps, is hunting sheep, 
A fierce and dreadful hunter he ; 
Yon valley, now so trim and green. 
In five months' time, should he be seen, 
A desert wilderness will be ! 

Perhaps, with head and heels on fire, 
And like the* very soul of evil, 
He's galloping away, away. 
And so will gallop on for aye, 
The bane of all that dread the devil! 

I to the Muses have been bound 

These fourteen years, by strong indentures: 

O, gentie Muses! let me tell 

Bu* half of what to him befel ; 

He surely met with strange adventures. 

O, gentle Muses ! is this kind ? 
Why will ye thus my suit repel ? 
Why of your further aid bereave me ? 
And can ye thus unfriended leave me, 
Ye Muses ! whom I love so well ? 

Who's you, that, near the ^^terfall, 
Which thunders down with headlong force, 
Beneath the Moon, yet shining fair, 
As careless as if nothing were. 
Sits upright on a feeding Horse ' 



Wordsworth's poems. 345 

Unto his Horse, there feeding free, 
He seems, I think, the rein to give ; 
Of Moon or Stars he takes no heed; 
Of such we in romances read : 
— 'Tis Johnny ! Johnny, as I live ! 

And that's the very Pony, too! 
Where is she — where is Betty Foy ? 
She hardly can sustain her fears ; 
The roaring waterfall she hears, 
And cannot find her Idiot Boy. 

Your Pony's worth his weight in gold* 
Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy ! 
She's coming from among the trees, 
And now all full in view she sees 
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. 

And Betty sees the Pony, too : 

Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy r 

It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost, 

'Tis he whom you so long have lost. 

He whom you love, your Idibt Boy. 

She looks again — her arms are up — 
She screams — she cannot move for joy ; 
She darts, as with a torrent's force, 
She almost has o'erturned the Horse, 
And fast she holds her Idiot Boy. 

And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud; 
Whether in cunning or in joy 
I cannot tell ; but while he laughs, 
Betty a drunken pleasure q'aaffs 
To hear again her Idiot Boy 



340 Wordsworth's poems. 

And now she's at the Pony's tail, 
And now is at the Pony's head, — 
On that side now, and now on this, 
And almost stifled with her bliss, 
A few sad tears does Betty shed. 

She kisses o'er and o'er again 
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy ; 
She's happy here, is happy there, 
She is uneasy every where ; 
Her limbs are all alive with joy. 

She pats the Pony, where or when 
She knows not, happy Betty Foy ! 
The little Pony glad may be, 
But he is milder far than she; 
You hardly can perceive his joy. 

" Oh ! Johnny, never mind the Doctor ; 
You've done your best, and that is all." 
She took the reins, when this was said. 
And g-ently turned the Pony's head 
From the lou4 waterfall. 

By this the stars were almost gone. 
The moon was setting on the hill, 
So pale you scarcely looked at her ; 
The little birds began to stir. 
Though yet their tongues were still. 

The Pony, Betty, and her Boy, 
Wind slowly through the woody dale ; 
And who is she, betimes abroad, 
That hobbles up the steep rough road ? 
Who is it, but old Susan Gale ? 



Wordsworth's poems. 347 

Long time lay Susan lost in thought, 
And many dreadful fears beset her, 
Both for her Messenger and Nurse ; 
And, as her mind grew worse and worse, 
Her body — it grew better. 

She turned, she tossed herself in bed. 
On all sides doubts and terrors met her ; 
Point after point did she discuss ; 
And, while her mind was fighting thus, 
Her body still grew better. 

" Alas ! what is become of them ? 

These fears can never be endured, 

I'll to the wood." The word scarce said. 

Did Susan rise up from her bed, 

As if by magic cured. 

Away she posts up hill and down. 

And to the wood at length is come ; 

She spies her Friends, she shouts a greeting; 

Oh me ! it is a merry meeting 

As ever was in Christendom. , 

The Owls have hardly sung their last, 
While our four Travellers homeward wtnd; 
The Owls have hooted all night long, 
And with the Owls began my song. 
And with the QwU must e::id. 

For while they all were travelling home. 
Cried Betty, "Tell as, Johnny, do. 
Where all this long night you have been, 
What you have heard, what you have seen, 
And, Johnny, mind you tell us true " 



348 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

J^Jow Johnny all night long had heard 
The Owls in tuneful concert strive : 
No doubt too he the Moon had seen; 
F^r in the moonlight he had been 
From eight o'clock till five. 

And thus, to Betty's question, he 

Made answer, like a Traveller bold, 

(His very words I give to you,) 

" The Cocks did crow to-whoo, to- whoa 

And the sun did shine so cold." 

— Thus answered Johnny in his glory^ 

And that was all his travel's story. 



MICHAEL: 
A PASTORAL POEM 



MICHAEL : 

A PASTORAL POEM. 



[f fn)m the public way you turn your stops 

Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 

You will suppose that with an upright path 

Your feet must strug:gle ; in such bold ascent 

The pastoral Mountains front you, flice to face. 

But, courage ! for around that boisterous Brook 

The mountains have all opened out themselves, 

And made a hidden valley of their own. 

No habitation can be seen ; but they 

Who journey thither find themselves alone 

With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kitei 

That overhead are sailing- in the sky. 

It is in truth an utter solitude ; 

Nor should I have made mention of this Dell 

But for one object which you might pass by, 

Might see and notice not. Beside the brook 

Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones! 

And to that place a story appertains, 

Which, though it be ungarnished with events, 

Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 

Or for the summer shade. It was the first 

Of those domestic tales that a lake to me 



352 Wordsworth's poems. 

Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men 

Whom I already loved — not verily 

For tlioir own sakes, but for the fields and hills 

Where was their occupation and abode. 

And hence tliis Tale, while I was yet a Boy 

Careless of books, yet Jiaving felt the power 

Of Nature, by the gentle agency 

Of natural objects led me on to feel 

For passions that were not my own, and think 

(At random and imperfectly indeed) 

'On man, the heart of man, and human life 

Therefore, although it be a history 

Homely and rude, I will relate ilie same 

For the delight of a few natural hearts ; 

And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake 

Of youthful Poets, who among these Hilia 

Will be my second self when I am gone. 

Upon the Forest-side in Grasmere Vaie 
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name 
An old. man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. 
His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
Of an unusual strength : his mind was keen. 
Intense and frugal, apt for all affairs, 
And in his Shepherd's calling he was prompt 
And watchful more than ordinary men. 
Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds 
Of blasts of every tone ; and, oftentimes. 
When others heeded not, he heard the South 
Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
Of Bagpipers on distant Highland hills. 
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock 
Bethought him, and he to himself would say, 
" The winds are now devising work for me ! " 
And, truly, at all times, the storm — that drives 



Wordsworth's poems. 35i^ 

The Traveller to a shelter — summoned him 

Up to the mountains : he had been alone 

Amid the heart of many thousand mists, 

Tliat came to him and left him on the heights. 

So lived he till his eightieth year was past; 

And grossly that man errs, who should suppose 

That the green Valleys, and the Stream and Rocka 

Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts.- 

Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed 

The common air ; the hills, which he so oft 

Had climbed with vigorous steps ; which had impressed 

So many incidents upon his mind 

Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear ; 

Which, like a book, preserved the memory 

Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, 

Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts. 

The certainty of honorable gain. 

Those fields, those hills — what could they less ? had laid 

Strong hold on his affections, were to him 

A pleasurable feeling of blind love, 

The pleasure which there is in life itself. 

His days had not been past in singleness. 
His helpmate was a comely Matron, old — 
Though younger than himself full twenty years. 
She was a woman of a stirring life. 
Whose heart was in her house : two wheels she had 
Of antique form, this large for spinning wool. 
That small for flax ; and if one wheel had rest, 
It was because the other was at work. 
The Pair had but one inmate in their house. 
An only Child, who had been born to them. 
When Michael, telling o'er his years, began 
To deem that he was old, — in Shepherd's phrase 
With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 
30* 



354 Wordsworth's poems. 

With two brave Sheep-dogs tried in many a storin, 

The one of an inestimable worth, 

Made all their Household. I may truly say, 

That they were as a proverb in the vale 

For endless industry. When day was gone, 

And from their occupations out of doors 

The Son and Father were come home, even then, 

Their labor did not cease ; unless when all 

Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and there, 

Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, 

Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes, 

And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when tlieii 

meal 
Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) 
And his old Father both partook themselves 
To such convenient work as might employ 
Their hands by the fire- side ; perhaps to card 
Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair 
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, 
Or other implement of house or field. 

Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, 

That in our ancient uncouth coi.ntry style 

Did with a huge projection overbrow 

Large space beneath, as duly as the light 

Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a Lamp; 

An aged utensil, which had performed 

Service beyond all others of its kind. 

Early at evening did it burn and late, 

Surviving Comrade of uncounted Hours, 

Which, going by from year to year, had found, 

And left the couple neither gay perhaps 

Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, 

Living a life of eager industry. . 

And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth yeai 



WORDSWORTH S POEMS. 355 

Tiiere by the light of this old Lamp they sat, 

Father and Son, while late into the night 

The Housewife plied her own peculiar work, 

Making the cottage through the silent hours 

Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. 

This Light was famous in its neighborhood, 

And was a public Symbol of the life 

That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced. 

Their Cottage on a plot of rising ground 

Stood single, with large prospect. North and South 

High into Easedale, up to Dummail-Raise, 

And westward to the village near the Lake ; 

And from 'this constant light, so regular 

And so far seen, the House itself, by all 

Who dwelt within the limits of the vale. 

Both old and young, was named The Evening Star 

Thus living on through such a length of years, 

The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs 

Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart 

This Son of his old age was yet more dear — 

Less from instinctive tenderness, the same 

Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of all — 

Than that a child, more than all other gifts. 

Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, 

And stirrings of inquietude, when they 

By tendency of nature needs must fail. 

Exceeding was the love he bare to him. 

His Heart and his Heart's joy ! For oftentimes 

Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 

Had done him female service, not alone 

For pastime and delight, as is the use 

Of Fathers, but with patient mind enforced 

To acts of- tenderness ; and he had rocked 

His cradle with a woman's srentle hand 



356 Wordsworth's poems. 

And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 

Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love 

Albeit of a stern unbending- mind, 

To have the Young-one in his sight, when he 

Had work by his own door, or when he sat 

With sheep before him on his Shepherd's stool, 

Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door 

Stood, — and, from its enormous breadth of shade 

Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, 

Thence in our rustic dialect was called 

The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears. 

There, while they two were sitting in the shade, 

With others round them, earnest all and blithe, 

Would Michael exercise his heart with looks 

Of fond correction and reproof bestowed 

Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep 

By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 

Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. 



And when by Heaven's good grace the Boy grew up 

A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek 

Two steady roses that were five years old. 

Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 

With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped 

With iron, making it throughout in all 

Due requisites a perfect Shepherd's Staff, 

And gave it to the Boy ; wherewith equipt 

He as a Watchman oftentimes was placed 

At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock ; 

And, to his office prematurely called. 

There stood the Urchin, as you will divine. 

Something between a hinderance and a help ; 

And for this cause not always, I believe, 

Receiving from his Father hire of praise; 



Wordsworth's poems. 357 

Though iiouo-ht was left undone which staff, or voice. 
Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform. 

But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand 

Against the mountain blasts ; and to the heights, 

Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, 

He with his father daily went, and they 

Were as companions ; why should I relate 

That objects which the Shepherd loved before 

Were dearer now ? that from the Boy there came 

Feelings and emanations — things which were 

Light to the sun and Music to the wind : 

And that the Old Man's heart seemed born again ^ 

Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up : 

And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year. 

He was his comfort and his daily hope. 

While in this sort the simple Household lived 

From day to day, to Michael's ear there came 

Distressful tidings. Long before the time 

Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 

In surety for his Brother's Son, a man 

Of an industrious life, and ample means, — 

But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 

Had prest upon him, — and old Michael now 

Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 

A grievous penalty,^ but little less 

Than half his substance. This unlooked-for c.aim, 

At the first hearing, for a moment took 

More hope out of his life than he supposed 

That any old man ever could have lost. 

As soon as he had gathered so much strength 

That he could look his trouble in t!ie face, 

U seemed that his sole refuge was to sell 



358 Wordsworth's POEMS. 

A portion of his patrimonial fields. 
Such was his first resolve ; he thought again. 
And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said he, 
Two evenings after he had heard the news, 

I have been toiling more than seventy years. 
And in the open sunshine of God's love 
Have we all lived : yet if these fields of ours 
Should pass into a Stranger's hand, I think 
That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 
Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself 
Has scarcely been more diligent than I ; 
And I have lived to be a fool at last 
To my own family. An evil Man 
That was, and made an evil choice, if he 
Were false to us ; and if he were not false, 
There are ten thousand to whom loss like this 
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him — but 
'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. 
When I began, my purpose was to speak 
Of remedies, and of a cheerful hope. 
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel ; the land 
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free ; 
He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
That passes over it. We have, thou know'st. 
Another Kinsman — he will be our Friend 
In this distress. He is a prosperous man, 
Thriving in trade — and Luke to him shall go, 
And with his Kinsman's help and his own thrift 
He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
May come again to us. If here he stay. 
What can be done ? Where every one is poor, 
What can be gained ? " At this the old Man paused, 
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
Was busy, looking back into past times. 
There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself 



WORDSA\ ORTH's POEMS. 859 

He was a Parish-boy — at the Chnrcli-door 

They made a gathering for him, — shillings, pence, 

And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbors boughi 

A Basket, which they filled with Pedlar's wares ; 

And with this Basket on his arm, the Lad 

Went up to London, found a Master there, 

Who, out of many, chose the trusty Boy 

To go and overlook his merchandise 

Beyond the seas ; where he grew wondrous rich, 

And left estates and moneys to the poor. 

And, at his birth-place, built a Chapel floored 

With Marble, which he sent from foreign lands. 

These thoughts, and many others of like sort, 

Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, 

And her face brightened. The Old Man was gl.ul, 

And thus resumed: — "Well, Isabel, this scheme, 

These two days, has been meat and drink to me. 

Far more than we have lost is left us yet. 

— We have enough — I wish indeed that 1 
Were younger, — but this hope is a good hop.-. 

— Make ready Luke's best garments, of the bi-si 
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth 
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: 

— If he could go, the Boy should go to-night." 
Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth 
With a light heart. The Housewife for five days 
Was restless morn and night, and all day long 
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare 
Things needful for the journey of her son. 

But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
To stop her in her work : for, when she lay 
By Michael's side, she through the two last nii/hti 
Heard him, how he was troubled in his slcfjo : 
And when they rose at morning she could see 
That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon 



3G0 Wordsworth's poems. 

She said to Luke, while they two by themselves 
Were sitting- at the door, "Thou must not go: 
We have no other Child but thee to lose, 
None to remember — do not go away, 
For if thou leave thy Father he will die." 
The Youth made answer with a jocund voice; 
And Isabel, when she had told her fears, 
Recovered heart. That evening her best fare 
Did she bring- forth, and all together sat 
Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 

With daylight Isabel resumed her work : 
And all the ensuing week the house appeared 
As cheerful as a grove in Spring : at length 
The expected letter from their Kinsman came, 
With kind assurances that he would do 
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy ; 
To which requests were added that forthwith 
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more 
The letter was read over ; Isabel 
Went forth to show it to the neighbors round ; 
Nor was there at that time on English land 
A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel 
Had to her house returned, the Old Man said, 
"He shall depart to-morrow." To this word 
The Housewife answered, talking much of thinga 
Which, if at such short notice he should go, 
Would surely be forgotten. But at length 
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. 

Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll 
In that deep Valley, Michael had designed 
To build a Sheep-fold ; and before he heard 
The tidings of his melancholy loss. 
For this same purpose ho had gathered up 



Wordsworth's poems. 361 

A heap of stones, which by the Streamlet's edge 
Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
With Luke that evening tliitherward he walked: 
And soon as they had reached the place he stopped, 
And thus the Old Man spake to him: — "My Son, 
To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full heart 
i look upon thee, for thou art the same 
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, 
And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 
I will relate to thee some little part 
Of our two histories ; 'twill do thee good 
When thou art from me, even if I should speak 
Of things thou canst not know of. — After thou 
First camest into the world — as oft befalls 
To new-born infants — thou didst sleep away 
Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue 
Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on. 
And still I loved thee with increasing love. 
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 
Than when I heard thee by our own fireside 
First uttering, without words, a natural tune ; 
When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy 
Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month, 
And in the open fields my life was passed 
And on the mountains ; else I think that thou 
Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees. 
But we were playmates, Luke ; among these hills, 
As well thou knowest, in us the old and young 
Have played together, nor with me didst thou 
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." 
Luke had a manly heart ; but at these words 
He sobbed aloud. The Old Man grasped his hand, 
And said, " Nay, do not take it so — I see 
That these are things of which I need not speak. 
— Even to the utmost I have been to thee 
31 



3()2 WORDS v/orth's poems. 

A kind and a good Father: and herein 

I but repay a gift which I myself 

Received at others' hands ; for, though now old 

Beyond the common life of man, I still 

Remember them who loved me in my youth. 

]3oth of them sleep together; here they lived, 

As all their Forefathers had done ; and when 

At length their time was come, they W3re not loth 

To give their bodies to the family mould. 

I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived. 

But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, 

And see so little gain from threescore years. 

These fields were burthened when they came t(; lue 

Till I was forty years of age, not more 

Than half of my inheritance was mine. 

I toiled and toiled ; God blessed me in my work, 

And till these three weeks past the land was free. 

— It looks as if it never could endure 

Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 

If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 

That thou shouldst go." At this the Old Man paused 

Then, pointing to the Stones near which they stood, 

Thus, after a short silence, he resumed : 

"This was a work for us; and now, my Son, 

It is a work for me. But, lay one -Stone — 

Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. 

Nay, Boy be of good hope ; — we both may livo 

To see a better day. At eighty-four 

I still am strong and hale ; — do thou thy part ! 

I will do mine. — I will begin again 

With many tasks that were resigned to thee : 

Up to the heights, and in among the storms. 

Will I without thee go again, and do 

All works which^ I was wont to do alone. 

Before I knew thy face. Heaven bless thee. Boy ! 



Wordsworth's poems. .3(hi 

Thy heart these two weeks has been beatinfr fast 

With many hopes. — It should be so — yes, yes — 

I knew that thou couldst never have a wish 

To leave nie, Luke : thou hast been bound to me 

Only by links of love: Avhen thou art gone, 

What will be left to us ? But, I forget 

My purpose. Lay now the corner-stone, 

As I requested ; and hereafter, Luke, 

Wiien thou art gone away, should evil men 

Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, 

And of this moment ; hither turn thy thoughts, 

And God will strengthen thee : amid all fear 

And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou 

Mayst bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, 

Who, being innocent, did for that cause 

Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well -- 

When thou returnest, thou in this place wilt see 

A work which is not iiere : a covenant 

'Twill be between us. — But, whatever fate 

Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, 

And bear thy m.emory with me to the grave." 

The Shepherd ended here ; and Luke stooped dov.'ij, 

And, as liis Father had requested, laid 

The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight, 

Tiie Old Man's grief broke from him ; to his heart 

He pressed his Son, he kissed him, and wept ; 

And to the house together they returned. 

--Hushed was that house in peace, or seeming jiciire, 

Ere the night fell : — with morrow's dawn the B )y 

Began his journey, and when he had reached 

The public Way, he put on a bold face ; 

And all the Neighbors, as he passed their doors, 

Came forth with wishes and with fiirewell prayers, 

That followed him till he was out of sioht. 



3G4 WORDSWORTH S POEMS. 

A good report did from their Kinsman come 

Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy 

Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 

Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout 

" The prettiest letters that were ever seen." 

Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. 

— So, many months passed on: and once again 

The Shepherd went about his daily work 

With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and now 

Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 

He to that Valley took his way, and there 

Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began 

To slacken in his duty ; and, at length, 

He in the dissolute city gave himself 

To evil courses ; ignominy and shame 

Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 

To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 

There is a comfort in the strength of Love ; 
'Twill make a thing endurable, which else 
Would overset the brain, or break the heart : 
I have conversed with more than one who well 
Remember the Old Man, and what he was 
Years after he had heard this heavy news. 
His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 
He went, and still looked up towards the sun, 
And listened to the wind ; and, as before. 
Performed all kinds of labor for his Sheep, 
And for the land his small inheritance. 
And to that hollow Dell from time to time 
Did he repair, to build the Fold of which 
His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet, 
The pity which was then in every heart 
For the Old Man — and 'tis believed by all 



Wordsworth's poems. 3(J5 

That many and many a day he thither went, 
And never lifted up a single stone. 

There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen 

Sitting alone, with that his faithful Dog, 

Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 

The length of full seven years, from time to time, 

He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought, 

And left the work unfinished when he died. 

— Three years, or little more, did Isabel 

Survive her Husband : at her death the estate 

Was sold, and went into a Stranger's hand. 

The Cottage which was named the Eve.m.ng Star 

Is gone — the ploughshare has been through the ground 

On which it stood ; great changes have been wrought 

In all the neighborhood : — yet the Oak is left 

Thaf: grew beside their Door ; and the remains 

Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen 

Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll. 



THE BROTHERS 



THE BROTHERS. 



"These Tourists, heaven preserve us ! needs musi 

live 
A profitable life ; some glance along, 
Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air. 
And they were butterflies to wheel about 
Long as the summer lasted ; some, as wise, 
Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag. 
Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, 
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, 
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, 
Or reap an acre of his neighbor's corn. 
But, for that moping Son of Idleness, 
Why can he tarry yonder ? — In our church-yard 
Is neither epitaph nor monument. 
Tombstone nor name — only the turf we tread 
And a few natural graves." 

To Jane, his wife, 
Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. 
It was a July evening, and he sate 
Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves 
Of his old cottage, — as it chanced, that day, 
Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone 
Hw wife sate near him, teasing matted wool. 



370 Wordsworth's poems. 

While fror.i the twin cards toothed with glittering wire. 

He fed the spindle of his youngest child, 

Who, in the open air, with due accord 

Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps, 

Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the field 

In which the Parish Chapel stood alone, 

Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, 

While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent 

Many a long look of wonder : and at last. 

Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge 

Of carded wool which the old man had piled. 

He laid his implements with gentle care. 

Each in the other locked ; and, down the path 

That from his cottage to the church-yard led, 

He took his way, impatient to accost 

The stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. 

'Twas one well-known to him in former days, 

A Shepherd lad ; who ere his sixteentn year 

Had left that calling, tempted to entrust 

His expectations to the fickle winds 

And perilous waters ; with the mariners 

A fellow mariner ; — and so had fared 

Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared 

Among the mountains, and he m his heart 

Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. 

Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard 

The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds 

Of caves and trees : — and, when the regular wind 

Between the tropics filled the steady sail, 

And blew with the same breath through days and 

weeks. 
Lengthening invisibly its weary line 
Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours 
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang 



uoRDs worth's pokms. .'{71 

Over the v«.'ssel's side, and gaze and gaze ; 

And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foam 

Flashed round him images and hues that wrought 

In union with the employment of his heart, 

He, thus by feverish passion overcome, 

Even with the organs of his bodily eye, 

Below him, in the bosom of the deep, 

Saw mountains, saw the forms of sheep that grazed 

On verdant hills — with dwellings among ti-e^s. 

And shepherds clad in the same country grey 

Which he himself had worn. 

And now, at last, • 
From perils manifold, with some small wealth 
Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, 
To his paternal home he is returned. 
With a determined purpose to resume 
The life he had lived there ; both for the sake 
Of many darling pleasures and the love 
Which to an only brother he has borne 
In all his hardships, since that happy time 
When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two 
Were brother shepherds on their native hills, 
— They were the last of all their race : and now 
When Leonard had approached his home, his heart 
Failed in him ; and, not venturing to inquire 
Tidings of one so long and dearly loved, 
fie to the solitary church-yard turned; 
That, as he knew in what particular spot 
His family were laid, he thence might learn 
If still his Brother lived, or to the file 
Another grave was added. He had found 
Another grave, — near which a full half hour 
He had remained ; but, as he gazed, there grew 
Such a confusion in his memory. 



372 Wordsworth's poems. 

That he began to doubt, and even to hope 

That he had seen this heap of turf before, — 

That it was not another grave ; but one 

He had forg-otten. He had lost his path, 

As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked 

Through fields which once had been well known 'o 

him : 
And oh, what joy this recollection now 
Sent to his heart ! he lifted up his eyes. 
And, looking round, imagined that he saw 
Strange alteration wrought on every side 
Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks, 
And everlasting hills themselves were changed. 

By this the Priest, who down the field had come. 

Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate 

Stopped short, — and thence, at leisure, limb by limb 

Perused him with a gay complacency. 

Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 

'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path, 

Of the world's business to go wild alone: 

His arms have a perpetual holiday ; 

The happy man will creep about the fields. 

Following his fancies by the hour, to bring 

Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles 

Into his face, until the setting sun 

Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus 

Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate 

Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared 

The good Man might have communed with himself, 

But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, 

Approached ; he recognized the Priest at once, 

And, after greetings interchanged, and given 

By Leonard to the Vicar, as to one 

Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. - 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS, 'SJ'.i 

Leon ird. You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life • 
Vour years make up one peaceful family : 
And who would gTieve and fret, if, welcome come 
And welcome gone, they are so like each other. 
They cannot be remembered ? Scarce a funeral 
Comes to this church-yard once in eig'hteen months , 
And yet, some changes must take place among you 
And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks, 
Can trace the finger of mortality, 
And see, that with our threescore years and ten, 

We are not all that perish. 1 remember 

(For many years ago I passed this road) 

There was a foot-way all along the fields 

By the brook-side — 'tis gone — and that dark cleft 

To me it dvies not seem to wear the face 

Which then it had ! 

Priest. Nay, Sir, for aught I know, 

That chasm is much the same — 

Leonard. But, surely, yonder — 

Priest. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friond 
That does not play you false. On that tall pike 
(It is the loneliest place of all these hills) 
Tiiere were two springs which bubbled side by side. 
As if they had been made that they might be 
Companions for each other: the huge crag 
Was rent with lightning — one hath disappeared; 
The other, left behind, is flowing still. 
For accidents and changes such as these, 
We want not store of them ; — a water-spout 
Will bring down half a mountain ; what a feast 
For folks that wander up and down like you. 
To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff* 
One roaring cataract ! a sharp May-storm 
Will come with loads of January snow. 
And in one night send twenty score of sheep 



374 WORDSWORTH S POEMS. 

To feed the ravens ; or a shepherd dies 

By some untoward death among the rocks : 

The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge ; 

A wood is felled; — and then for our own homes! 

A child is born or christened, a field ploughed, 

A daughter sent to service, a web spun, 

The old house-clock is decked with a new face 

And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates 

To chronicle the time, we all have here 

A pair of diaries, — one serving, Sir, 

For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side — 

Yours was a stranger's judgment : for historians, 

Commend me to these valleys ! 

Leonard. Yet your Church-yard 

Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, 
To say that you are headless of the past : 
An orphan could not find his mother's grave : 
Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass, 
Cross-bones nor skull, — type of our earthly stale 
Nor emblem of our hopes : the dead man's homo 
Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. 

Pnest Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to 
me ! 
The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread 
[f every English church-yard were like ours ; 
Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth : 
We have no need of names and epitaphs ; 
We talk about the dead by our fire-sides. 
And then, for our immortal part ! ive want 
No symbols. Sir, to tell us that plain tale : 
The thought of death sits easy on the man 
Who has been born and dies among the mountains. 

Leonard. Your Dalesmen, then, do in end-, other's 
thoughts 
Possess a kind of second life : no doubt 



WORDSWORTH S POEMS. 



375 



Vou, Sir, could help me to the history 
Of half these graves ? 

Priest. For eight-score winters past, 

With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard, 
Perhaps I might ; and, on a winter evening, 
If you were seated at my chimney's nook, 
By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, 
We two could travel. Sir, through a strange round ; 
Yet all in the broad highway of the world. 
Now there's a grave — your foot is half upon it, — 
It looks just like the rest; and yet that man 
Died broken-hearted. 

Leonard. 'Tis a common case. 

We'll take another : who is he that lies 
Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves ? 
It touches on that piece of native rock 
Left in the church-yard wall. 

Priest That's Walter Ewbank. 

He had as white a head and fresh a cheek 
As ever were produced by youth and age 
Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. 
Through five long generations had the heart 
Of Walter's forefather's o'erflowed the bounds 
Of their inheritance, that single cottage — 
You see it yonder ! and those few green fields. 
They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to son 
Each struggled, and each yielded as before 
A little — yet a little, — and old Walter 
They left to him the family heart, and land 
With other burdens than the crop it bore. 
Year after year the old man still kept up 
A cheerful mind, — and buffeted with bond, 
Interest, and mortgages ; at last he sank 
And went into his grave before his time. 
Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurred hirn 



376 Wordsworth's poems. 

God only knows, but to the very last 
He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale . 
His pace was never that of sin old man: 
f almost see him tripping down the path 
With his two grandsons after him: — but you. 
Unless our Landlord be your host to-night, 
Have far to travel, — and on these rough paths 
Ev^en in the longest day of midsummer — 

Leonard. But those two Orphans ! 

Priest. Orphans ! — Such they were — 

Yet not while Walter lived : — for, though their parents 
Lay buried side by side as now they lie, 
The old man was a father to the boys. 
Two fathers in one father; and if tears, 
Shed when he talked of them where they were not. 
And hauntings from the infirmity of love, 
Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart. 
This old Man, in the day of his old age, 
Was half a mother to them. — If you weep, Sir, 
To hear a stranger talking about strangers, 
Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred 
Ay — you may turn that way — it is a grave 
Which will bear looking at. 

Leonard, These boys — I hope 

They loved this good old Man? — 

Priest. They did — and truly : 

But that was what we almost overlooked. 
They were such darlings of each other. Yes, 
Though from the cradle they had lived with Waller^ 
The only kinsman near them, and though he 
Inclined to both by reason of his age, 
With a more fond, familiar tenderness; 
They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare, 
And it all went into each other's hearts. 
Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, 



Wordsworth's poems. 377 

Was two years taller : 'twas a joy to see, 

To hear, to meet them ! — From their house the schoo 

Is distant three short miles, and in the time 

Of storm and thaw, when every water-course 

And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed 

Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, 

Was swoln into a noisy rivulet. 

Would Leonard then, when elder boys remained 

At home, go staggering through the slipper}' fords, 

Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him, 

On windy days, in one of those stray brooks, 

Ay, more than once I've seen him, mid-leg deep, 

Their two books lying both on a dry stone, 

Upon the hither side ; and once I said. 

As I remember, looking round these rocks 

And hills, on which we all of us were born. 

That God, who made the great book of the world, 

Would bless such piety — 

Leonard, It may be, then — 

Priest. Never did worthier lads break English bread . 
The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw, 
With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, 
Could never keep those boys away from church. 
Or tempt them to an hour of Sabbath breach, 
Leonard and James ! I warrant, every corner 
Among these rocks, and every hollow place 
That venturous foot could reach, to one or both 
Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there 
Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills ; 
They played like two young ravens on the crags : 
Then they could write, ay, and speak too, as well 
As many of their betters — and for Leonard! 
The very night before ho went away, 
In my own house I put into his hand 
A biblo, and I'd wager house and field, 
32* 



578 Wordsworth's poems. 

That, if he be alive, he has it yet. 

Leonard. It seems these brothers have not lived 
to be 
A comfort to each other — 

Priest That they might 

Live to such end is what both old and young 
In this our valley all of us have wished, 
And what, for my part, I have often prayed ; 
But Leonard — 

Leonard. Then James still is left among you ! 

Priest. 'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking : 
They had an uncle ; — he was at that time 
A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas : 
And, but for that same uncle, to this hour 
Leonard had never handled rope or shroud : 
For the boy loved the life which we lead here ; 
And though of unripe years, a stripling only, 
His soul was knit to this his native soil. 
But, as I said, old Walter was too weak 
To strive with such a torrent; when he died. 
The estate and house were sold ; and all their sheep 
A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know. 
Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years. 
Well, all was gone, and they were destitute. 
And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake. 
Resolved to try his fortune on the seas. 
Twelve years are past since we had tidings from I iiu 
If there were one among us who had heard 
That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, 
From the Great Gavel, down by Leeza's bankb\ 
And down the Enna, far as Egremont, 
The day would be a joyous festival ; 
And those two bells of ours, which there you sen — 
Hanging in the open air — but, O good Sir, 
This is sad talk — they'll never sound for him 



wordsavorth's poems. IJ7;« 

Living or dead. When last we heard of him, 

He was in slavery among the Moors 

Upon the iJarbary coast. — 'Twas not a little 

That would bring down his spirit; and no doubt 

Before it ended in his death, the Youth 

Was sadly crossed. — Poor Leonard! when we {^irtod, 

Ho took me by the hand, and said to me, 

If e'er he should grow rich, he would return 

To live in peace upon his father's land, 

And lay his bones among us. 

Leonard. If that day 

Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him , 
He would himself, no doubt, be happy then 
As any that should meet him — 

Priest. Happy I Sir — 

Leonard. You said his kindred all were in thoir 
graves, 
And that he had one Brother — 

Priest. Tiuit is but 

A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth 
James, though not sickly, yet was delicate ; 
And Leonard being always by his side, 
Had done so many offices about him, 
That though he was not of a timid nature, 
Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy 
In him was somewhat checked; and when his Hrotiier 
Was gone to sea, and he was left alone. 
The litfle color that he had was soon 
Stolen from his cheek ; he drooped, and pined, and 
pined — 

Leonard. But these are all the graves of full-grown 
men ! 

Pnest. Ay, Sir, that passed away; we took hmj 
to us ; 
ffe wQs the child of all t!ie dale — h':; lived 



380 Wordsworth's poems. 



And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love ; 

And many, many happy days were his. 

But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief 

His absent Brother still was at his heart. 

And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found 

(A practice till this time unknown to him) 

That often, rising from his bed at night, 

He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping 

He sought his brother Leonard. — You are moved ! 

Forgive me, Sir : before I spoke to you, 

I judged you most unkindly. 

Leonard. But this Youth, 

How did he die at last ? 

Priest. One sweet May-morning, 

(Ft will be twelve years since when Spring returns,) 
He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs, 
With two or three companions whom their course 
Of occupation led from height to height 
Under a cloudless sun — till he, at length. 
Through weariness, or haply, to indulge 
The humor of the moment, lagged behind. 
You see yon precipice; — it wears the shape 
Of a vast building made of many crags ; 
And in the midst is one particular rock 
That rises like a column from the vale. 
Whence by our shepherds it is called, The Pi.m.^r. 
Upon its aery summit crowned with heath, 
The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades. 
Lay stretched at ease ; but, passing by the place 
On their return, tley found that he was gone. 
No ill was feared '. till one of them by chance 
Entering, when evenmg was far spent, the house 
Which at that time was James's home, there learned 
That nobody had seen him all that day : 



Wordsworth's poems. li^ 

The morning came, and still he was unheard of: 
The neighbors were alarmed, and to the brook 
Some hastened ; some ran to the lake : ere noon 
They found him at the foot of that same rock 
Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after 
I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies ! 

Leonard. And that, then, is his grave ! — Before 
his death 
You say that he saw many happy years ? 

Priest. Aye, that he did — 

Leonard. And all went well with hini? — 

Priest. If he had one, the youth had twenty homes. 
. Leonard. And you believe, then, that his mind was 
easy ? — 

Priest. Yes, long before he died, he fonnfl that 
time 
Is a true friend to sorrow ; and unless 
His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless fortune, 
He talked about him with a cheerful love. 

Leonard. He could not come to an unhallowed end I 

Priest. Nay, God forbid ! — You recollect I men- 
tioned 
A habit which disquietude and grief 
Had brought upon him ; and we all conjectured 
That, as the day was warm, he had lain down 
On the soft heath, — and, waiting for his comrades, 
He there had fallen asleep ; that in his sleep 
He to the margin of the precipice 
Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong 
And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth 
Fell, in his hand he must have grasped, we think 
His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rock 
It had been caught midway; and there for yeara 
It hung ; — and mouldered there. 



382 worpsworth's poems. 

The Priest here ended — 
The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt 
A gushing from his heart, that took away 
The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence 
And Leonard, when they reached the church-yard gate^ 
As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round, — 
And, looking at the grave, he said, " My Brother ! " 
The Vicar did not hear the words : and now, 
He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreating 
That Leonard would partake his honi' ly fare : 
The other thanked him with an earnest voice ; 
But added, that the evening being calm, 
He would pursue his journey. So they parted. 

[t was not long ere Leonard reached a grove 

That overhung the road : he there stopped short, 

And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed 

All that the Priest had said : his early years 

Were with him: — his long absence, cherished lu^pca 

And thoughts which had been his an hour before, 

All pressed on him with such a weight, that now, 

This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed 

A place in which he could not bear to live : 

So he relinquished all his purposes. 

He travelled back to Egremont ; and thence, 

That night he wrote a letter to the Priest, 

Reminding him of what had passed between them , 

And adding, with a hope to be forgiven. 

That it was from the weakness of his heart 

He had not dared to tell him who he was. 

This done, he went on shipboard, and is now 

A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner. 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE, 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 



[Peter Henry Bruce, having given in his entertaining Memoirs the 
substance of the following Tale, affirms, that, besides the concun-iiig 
reports of others, he had the story from the Lady's own mouth. 

The Lady Catherine, mentioned towards the close, was the famous 
Catherine, then bearing that name as the acknowledged Wif-s of Petei 
the Great.] 



PART I. 



Enough of rose-bud lips, and eyes 

Like harebells bathed in dew, 
Of cheek that with carnation vies, 

And veins of violet hue ; 
Earth wants not beauty that may scorn 

A likening to frail flowers ; 
Yea, to the stars, if they were boru 

For seasons and for hours. 



II. 

Through Moscow's gates, with gold unbarred, 
Stepped one at dead of night, 
33 



iiSfl WORDSV/ORTIl's POEMS. 

Whom such high heauty could not guard 

From meditated blight ; 
By stealth she passed, and fled as fast 

As doth the hunted fawn, 
Nor stopped, till in the dappling east 

Appeared unwelcome dawn. 



Seven days she lurked in brake and field 

Seven nights her course renewed. 
Sustained by what her scrip might yield, 

Or berries of the wood ; 
At length, in darkness travelling on, 

When lowly doors were shut. 
The haven of her hope she won, 

Her Foster-mother's hut 



IV. 

*To put your love to dangerous proof 

I come," said she, " from far ; 
For I have left my Father's roof, 

In terror of the Czar." 
No answer did the Matron give, 

No second look she cast ; 
She hung upon the Fugitive, 

Embracing and embraced. 



She lead her Lady to a seat 
Beside the glimmering fire, 

Bathed duteously her way-worn feet, 
Prevented each desire : 



Wordsworth's poems. 387 

The cricket chirped, the house-dog dozed, 

And on that simple bed, 
Where she in childhood liad reposed, 

Now rests her weary head 



VI. 

When she, whose couch had been the sod, 

Whose curtain pine or tnorn. 
Had breathed a sigh of thanks to God, 

Who comforts the forlorn ; 
While over her the Matron bent 

Sleep sealed her eyes, and stole 
Feeling from limbs with travel spent, 

And trouble from the soul. 



Refreshed, the Wanderer rose at morn. 

And soon again was dight 
In those unworthy vestments worn 

Through long and perilous flight; 
And " O beloved Nurse," she said, 

" My thanks with silent tears. 
Have unto Heaven and You been paid : 

Now listen to mv fears ! 



Have you forgot" — and here she smi.ed 

'•The babbling flatteries 
You lavised on me when a child 

Disporting round your knees ? 
1 was your lambkin, and your bird, 

Your star, your gem, your flower; 



388 wori;sworth's pokms. 

Light words, that were more lightly heard 
In many a cloudless hour! 



IX. 

The blossom you so fondly praised 

Is come to bitter fruit ; 
A mighty One upon me gazed; 

1 spurned his lawless suit, 
And must be hidden from his wrath. 

You, Foster-father dear, 
Will guide me in my forward path; 

T may not tarry here ! 



I cannot bring to utter woe 

Your proved fidelity." — 
'•Dear Child, sweet Mistress, say not so! 

For you we both would die." 
" Nay, nay, I come with semblance feigned 

And cheek embrowned by art ; 
Yet, being inwardly unstained. 

With courage will depart" 



XI. 

"But whither would you, could you, flee.^ 

A poor Man's counsel take; 
The Holy Virgin gives to me 

A thought for your dear sake ; 
Rest, shielded by our Lady's grace; 

And soon shall you be led 
Forth to a safe abiding-place, 

Where never foot doth tread." 



WORDSWORTH'S FOEMS. 



PART II. 



The Dwelling of this faithful pair 

In a straggling village stood, — 
For One who breathed unquiet air 

A dangerous neighborhood ; 
But wide around lay forest ground 

With thickets rough and blind ; 
And pine-trees made a heavy shade 

Impervious to the wind. 



And there, sequestered from the sight. 

Was spread a treacherous swamp, 
On which the noonday sun shed light 

As from a lonely lamp ; 
And midway in the unsafe morass, 

A single Island rose 
Of firm dry ground, with healthful grasa 

Adorned, and shady boughs. 

III. 

The Woodman knew, for such the craft 

This Russian Vassal plied. 
That never fowler's gun, nor shaft 

Of archer, there was tried ; 
A sanctuary seemed the spot. 

From all intrusion free ; 
And there he planned an artful Cot 

For perfect secrecy. 
33* 



390 Wordsworth's poems. 



With earnest pains unchecked by drear! 

Of Power's far-stretching hand, 
The bold good Man his labor sped 

At nature's pure command; 
Heart-soothed, and busy as a wren, 

While, in a hc'low nook, 
She moulds her sight-eluding den 

Above a murmuring brook. 

V. 

His task accomplished to his mind. 

The twain ere break of day 
Creep forth, and through the forest wind 

Their solitary* way ; 
Few words they speak, nor dare to slack 

Their pace from mile to mile, 
Till they have crossed the quaking marsh, 

And reached the lonely Isle. 



The sun above the pine-trees showed 

A bright and cheerful face; 
And Ina looked for her abode, 

The promised hiding-place ; 
She sought in vain, the Woodman smiled; 

No threshold could be seen. 
Nor roof, nor window ; all seemed wild 

As it had ever been. 



Advancing, you might guess an hour 
The front with such nice care 



Wordsworth's poems. 'ii)l 

Is masked, "if house it be, or bower," 

But in they entered are ; 
As shaggy as were wall and roof 

With branches intertwined, 
So smooth was all within, air-proof, 

And delicately lined. 



And hearth was there, and maple dish^ 

And cups in seemly rows, 
And couch — all ready to a wish 

For nurture or repose; 
And Heaven doth to her virtue grant 

That here she may abide 
In solitude, with every want 

By cautious love supplied. 



No Queen, before a shouting crowd 

Led on in bridal state. 
E'er struggled with a heart so prouc 

Entering her palace gate ; 
Rejoiced to bid the world farewell, 

No saintly Anchoress 
E'er took possession of her cell 

With deeper thankfulness 



"Father of all, upon thy care 

And mercy am I thrown ; 
Be thou my safeguard ! " — such her prayer 

When she was left alone, 



393 Wordsworth's poems. 

Kneeling amid the wilderness 
When joy had passed away, 

And smiles, fond efforts of distreos 
To hide what they betray ! 



The prayer is heard, the Saints have seenk 

Diffused through form and face, 

Resolves devotedly serene ; 

That monumental grace 
Of Faith, which doth all passions tame 

That Reason should control ; 
And shows in the untrembling frame 

A statue of the soul. 



PART III. 



Tis sung in ancient minstrelsy 

That Phoebus wont to wear 
"The leaves of any pleasant tree 

Around his golden hair," 
Till Daphne, desperate with pursuit 

Of his imperious love. 
At her own prayer transformed, took root, 

A laurel in the grove 



Then did the Penitent adorn 
His brow with laurel green j 



Wordsworth's poems. 39J3 

And 'raid his bright locks never shorn 

No meaner leaf was seen; 
And Poets sage, through every aofe. 

About their temples wound 
The bay ; and Conquerors thanked the Gods, 

With laurel chaplets crowned. 



III. 

Into the mists of fabling Time 

So far runs back the praise 
Of Beauty, that disdains to climb 

Along forbidden ways ; 
That scorns temptation; power defies 

Where mutual love is not; 
And to the tomb for rescue flies, 

When life would be a blot. 



To this fair Votaress, a fate 

More mild doth Heaven ordain 
Upon her Island desolate; 

And words not breathed in vam, 
Might tell what intercourse she found. 

Her silence to endear; 
What birds she tamed, what flowers the ground 

Sent forth her peace to cheer. 



To one mute Presence, above all, 
Her soothed affections clung, 



A picture on the Cabin wall 
By Russian usage hung — 



S94 Wordsworth's poems. 

The Mother-maid, whose countenance brigni 

With love abridged the day; 
And communed with by taper light, 

Chased spectral fears away 



And oft, as either Guardian came, 

The joy in that retreat 
Might any common friendship shame. 

So high their hearts would beat ; 
And to the lone Recluse, whatever 

They brought, each visiting 
Was like the crowding of the year 

With a new burst of spring 



But, when she of her Parents thought, 

The pang was hard to bear ; 
And, if with all things not enwrought, 

That trouble still is near. 
Before her flight she had not dared 

Their constancy to prove, 
Too much the heroic Daughter feared 

The weakness of their love. 



Dark is the Past to them, and dark 

The future still must be. 
Till pitying Saints conduct her bark 

Into a safer sea — 
Or gentle Nature close her eyes 

And set her Spirit free 



Wordsworth's poems. 31)5 



From the altar of this sacrifice, 
In vestal purity. 



Yet, when above the forest-glooms 

The white swans southward passed, 
High as tlie pitch of their swift plumes 

Her fancy rode the blast; 
And bore her tow'rd the fields of France, 

Her Father's native land, 
To mingle in the rustic dance, 

The happiest of the band! 



X. 

Of those beloved fields she oft 

Had heard her Father tell 
In phrase that now with echoes soft 

Haunted her lonely Cell ; 
She saw the hereditary bowers, 

She heard the ancestral stream ; 
The Kremlin and its haughty towers 

Forgotten like a dream ! 



PART IV. 



The ever-changing Moon had traced 
Twelve times her monthly round. 



396 Wordsworth's poems. 

When through the unfrequented Waste 
Was heard a startling sound ; 

A shout thrice sent from one who chased 
At speed a wounded Deer, 

Bounding through branches interlaced, 
And where the wood was clear. 



The fainting Creature took the marsh. 

And toward the Island fled, 
While plovers screamed with tumult harsh 

Above his antlered head ; 
This, Ina saw ; and, pale with fear, 

Shrunk to her citadel; 
The desperate Deer rushed on, and near 

The tangled covert fell 



Across the marsh, the game in view. 

The Hunter followed fast, 
Nor paused, till o'er the Stag he blew 

A death-proclaiming blast: 
Then, resting on her upright mind, 

Came forth the Maid — " In me 
Behold," she said, "a stricken Hind 

Pursued by destiny ! 

IV. 

From your deportment. Sir ! I deem 
That you have worn a sword. 

And will not hold in light esteem 
A suffering woman's word ; 



Wordsworth's poems. 3^7 

There is my covert, there, perchance, 

I might have lain concealed, 
My fortures hid, my countenance 

Nor even to you revealed. 

V. 

Tears might be shed, and I might pray, 

Crouching and terrified, 
That what has been unveiled to-day, 

You would in mystery hide ; 
But I will not defile with dust 

The knee that bends to adore 
The God in heaven ; — attend, be just 

This ask I, and no more ! 



I speak not of the winter's cold. 

For summer's heat exchanged, 
While I have lodged in this rough hold, 

From social life estranged ; 
Nor yet of trouble and alarms : 

High Heaven is my defence ; 
And every season has soft arms 

For injured Innocence. 

VII. 

From Moscow to the Wilderness 

It was my choice to come, 
Lest virtue should be harborless, 

And honor want a home; 
And happy were I, if the Czar 

Retain his lawless will, 
34 



{^^8 Wordsworth's pokms. 

To end life here like this poor Deer, 
Or a Lamb on a jrreen hill." 



" Are you the Maid," the Stranger cried, 

"From Gallic Parents sprung, 
Whose vanishing was rumored wide, 

Sad theme for every tongue ; 
Who foiled an Emperor's eager quest ? 

You, Lady, forced to wear 
These rude habiliments, and rest 

Your head in this dark lair ! '* 



IX. 

But wonder, pity, soon were quelled ; 

And in her face and mien 
The soul's pure brightness he beheld 

Without a veil between : 
He loved, he hoped, — a holy flame 

Kindled 'mid rapturous tears ; 
The passion of a moment came 

As on the wings of years. 



" Such bounty is no gift of chance," 
. Exclaimed he ; " righteous Heaven, 
Preparing your deliverance, 

To me the charge hath given. 
The Czar full oft in words and deeds 

Is stormy and self-willed ; 
But, when the Lady Catherine pleads, 

His violence is stilled. 



wopxHsworth's poems. 399 



"Leave open to my wish the course, 

And I to her w.il go ; 
From that humane and heavenly sourcCj 

Good, only good, can flow." 
Faint sanction given, the Cavalier 

Was eager to depart, 
Though question followed question, dear 

To the Maiden's filial heart 



Light was his step, — his hopes, more light 

Kept pace with his desires ; 
And the third morning gave him sight 

Of Moscow's glittering spires. 
He sued ; — heart-smitten by the wrong, 

To the lorn Fugitive 
The Emperor sent a pledge as strong 

As sovereign power could give. 



O more than mighty change ! If e'er 

Amazement rose to pain. 
And over-joy produced a fear 

Of something void and vain, — 
'Twas when the Parents, who had mourned 

So long the lost as dead. 
Beheld their only Child returned, 

The household floor to tread. 



Soon gratitude gave way to love 
Within the Maiden's breast 



400 Wordsworth's poems. 

Delivered and Deliverer move 

In bridal garments drest; 
Meek Catherine had her own reward; 

The Czar bestowed a dower 
And universal Moscow shared 

The triumph of that hour. 



Flowers strewed the ground ; tne nuptial feast 

Was held with costly state ; 
And there, 'mid many a noble Guest, 

The Foster Parents sate ; 
Encouraged by the imperial eye, 

They shrank not into shade ; 
Great was their bliss, the honor high 

To them and Nature paid ! 



GOODY BLAKE 

AND 

HARRY GILL, 



GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GlLl 
A TRUE STORY 



Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter^ 
What is't that ails young Harry Giil ? 
That evermore his teeth they chatter, 
Chatter, chatter, chatter still ! 
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 
Good duffle gray, and flannel fine , 
He has a blanket on his back, 
And coats enough to smother nine. 

In March, December, and in July, 
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 
The neighbors tell, and tell you truly, 
His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
At night, at morning, and at noon, 
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill ; 
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon. 
His teeth they chatter, chatter still : 

Young Harry was a lusty drover. 
And who so stout of limb as he ? 
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover ; 
His voice was like the voice of three. 



404 Wordsworth's poems. 

Old Goody Blake was old and poor ; 
111 fed she was, and thinly clad ; 
And any man who passed her door 
Might see how poor a hut she had. 

All day she spun in her poor dwelling- ; 
And then her three hours' work at night, — 
Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling, 
It would not pay for candle-light. 
Remote from sheltering village green, 
On a hill's northern side she dwelt. 
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, 
And hoary dews are slow to melt. 

By the same fire to boil their pottage. 
Two poor old Dames, as I have known. 
Will often live in one small cottage ; 
But she, poor Woman ! housed alone. 
'Twas well enough when summer came. 
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day ; 
Then at her door the canty Dame 
Would sit, as any linnet gay. 

But when the ice our streams did fetter. 
Oh ! then how her old bones would shake ! 
You would have said, if you had met her, 
'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. 
Her evenings then were dull and dead ; 
Sad case it was, as you may think. 
For very cold to go to bed; 
And then for cold not sleep a wink! 

O joy for her ! whene'er in winter 
The winds at night had made a rout; 
And scattered many a lusty splinter 
And many a rotten bough about 



Wordsworth's poems. 405 

Yet never had she, well or sick, 
As every man who knew her says, 
A pile beforehand, turf or stick, 
Enough to warm her for three days. 

Now, when the frost was past enduring, 
And made her poor old bones to ache. 
Could any thing- be more alluring 
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? 
And, now and then, it must be said. 
When her old bones were cold and chill, 
She left her fire, or left her bed, 
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. 

Now Harry he had long suspected 
This trespass of old Goody Blake ; 
And vowed that she should be detected, 
And he on her would vengeance take. 
And oft from his warm fire he'd go. 
And to the fields his road would take ; 
And there, at night, in frost and snow. 
He watched to seize old Goody Blake. 

And once, behind a rick of barley, 
Thus looking out did Harry stand: 
The moon was full and shining clearly, 
And crisp with frost the stubble land. 
— He hears a noise — he's all awake — 
Again! — on tip-toe down the hill 
He softly creeps — 'Tis Goody Blake, 
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill ! 

Right glad was he when he beheld her 
Stick after stick did Goody pull: 
He stood behind a bush of elder, 
Till she had filled her apron full 



406 Wordsworth's poems. 

When with her load she turned about. 
The by-way back again to take ; 
He started forward with a shout, 
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. 

And fiercely by the arm he took her. 
And by the arm he held her fast, 
And fiercely by the arm he shook her. 
And cried, " I've caught you then at last ! ' 
Then Goody, who had nothing said, 
Her bundle from her lap let fall ; 
And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed. 
To God that is the judge of all, 

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing. 
While Harry held her by the arm — 
"God! who art never out of hearing, 
O may he never more be warm ! " 
The cold, cold moon above her head, 
Thus on her knees did Goody pray ; 
Young Harry heard what she had said. 
And icy cold he turned away. 

He went complaining all the morrow 
That he was cold and very chill ; 
His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow 
Alas ! that day for Harry Gill ! 
That day he wore a riding-coat. 
But not a whit the warmer he : 
Another was on Thursday brought, 
And ere the Sabbath he had three! 

'Twas all in vain, a useless matter 
And blankets were about him pinned ; 
Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter 
Like a loose casement in the wind. 



Wordsworth's poems. 407 

And Hariy's flesh it fell away; 
And all who see hira say, 'tis plain, 
That, live as long as live he may, 
He never will be warm again. 

No word to any man he utters. 
Abed or up, to young or old ; 
But ever to himself he mutters, 
"Poor Harry Gill is very cold." 
Abed or up, by night or day. 
His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray^. 
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 

SONNETS, &c. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 

SONNETS, &c. 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 



List, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower 

At eve ; how softly then 
Doth Aira-force, that torrent hoarse, 

Speak from the woody glen ! 
Fit music for a solemn vale ! 

And holier seems the ground 
To him who catches on the gale 
The spirit of a mournful tale, 

Embodied in the sound 



Not far from that fair sight whereon 
The Pleasure-house is reared, 

As Story says, in antique days, 
A stern-brow'd house appeared ; 

Foil to a jewel rich in light 
There set, and guarded well ; 



412 Wordsworth's poems. 

Cage for a bird of plumage bright, 
Sweet-voiced, nor wishing for a flight 
Beyond her native dell. 



ni. 

To win this bright bird from her cage. 

To make this gem their own, 
Came Barons bold, with store of gold, 

And Knights of high renown ; 
But one she prized, and only One ; 

Sir Eglamore was he ; 
Full happy season, when was known. 
Ye Dales and Hills ! to you alone 

Their mutual loyalty — 



IV. 

Known chiefly, Aira ! to thy glen. 

Thy brook, and bowers of holly ; 
Where Passion caught what Nature taught, 

That all but Love is folly; 
Where Fact with Fancy stooped to play, 

Doubt came not, nor regret ; 
To trouble hours that winged their way. 
As if through an immortal day 

Whose sun could never set- 



But in old times Love dwelt not long 

SequesterM with repose ; 
Best throve the fire of chaste desire, 

Fanned by the breath of foes. 
" A conquering lance is beauty's test. 



Wordsworth's poems. 413 

And proves the Lover true ; " 
So spake Sir Eglamore, and pressed 
The drooping Emma to his breast, 

And looked a blind adieu. 



VI. 

They parted. — Well with him it fared 

Through wide-spread regions errant; 
A knight of proof in love's behoof, 

The thirst of fame his warrant: 
And she her happiness can build 

On woman's quiet hours; 
Though faint, compared with spear and shield, 
The solace beads and masses yield, 

And needlework and flowers. 



Yet blest was Emma when she heard 

Her Champion's praise recounted ; 
Though brain would swim, and eyes grow dun 

And high her blushes mounted; 
Or when a bold heroic lay 

She warbled from full heart: 
Delightful blossoms for the May 
Of absence! but they will not stay, 

Born only to depart 

VIII. 

Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills 

Whatever path he chooses ; 
As if his orb, that owns no curb. 

Receive*^ the light her's loses. 
35* 



414 Wordsworth's poems. 

He comes not back ; an ampler space 

Requires for nobler deeds ; 
He ranges on from place to place, 
Till of his doings is no trace 
But what her fancy breeds. 



His fame may spread, but in the past 

Her spirit finds its centre ; 
Clear sight she has of what he was, 

And that would now content her. 
" Still is he my devoted knight ? " 

The tear in answer flows ; 
Month falls on month with heavier weight 
Day sickens round her, and the night 

Is empty of repose. 



In sleep she sometimes walked abroad, 

Deep sighs with quick words blending, 
Like that pale Queen whose hands are seen 

With fancied spots contending; 
But she is innocent of blood, — 

The moon is not more pure 
That shines aloft, while through the wood 
She thrids her way, the sounding Flood 

Her melancholy lure ! 



XI. 

While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe. 

And owls alone are waking, 
In white arrayed, glides on the Maid 



woRDSwoRTii's po?:ms. 416 

The downward pathway taking, 
That leads her to the torrent's side 

And to a holly bower ; 
By whom on this still night descried ? 
By whom in that lone place espied ? 

By thee, Sir Eglamore! 



A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Knight, 

His coming step has thwarted, 
Beneath the boughs that heard their vows, 

Within whose shade they parted. 
Hush, hush, the busy Sleeper see ! 

Perplexed her fingers seem. 
As if they from the holly tree 
Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly 

Flung from her to the stream. 

XIII. 

What means the Spectre ?^ Why intent 

To violate the Tree, 
Thought Eglamore, by which I swore 

Unfading constancy ? 
Here am I, and to-morrow's sun. 

To her I left, shall prove 
That bliss is ne'er so surely won 
As when a circuit has been run 

Of valor, truth, and love. 



So from the spot whereon he stoocU 
He moved with stealthy pace • 



416 Wordsworth's poems. 

And, drawing nigh, with his living eye, 

He recognized the face ; 
And whispers caught, and speeches small. 

Some to the green-leaved tree, 
Some muttered to the torrent fall, — 
" Roar on, and bring him with thy call ; 

I heard, and so may he ! " 



Soul-shattered was the Knight, nor knew 

If Emma's Ghost it were. 
Or boding Shade, or if the Maid 

Her very self stood there. 
He touched, what followed whp shall tell ? 

The soft touch snapped the thread 
Of slumber — shrieking, back she fell, 
And the Stream whirled her down the dell 

Along its foaming bed. 

XVI. 

In plunged the Knight! — when on firm groujid 

The rescued Maiden lay. 
Her eyes grew bright with blissful light. 

Confusion passed away ; 
She heard, ere to the throne of grace 

Her faithful Spirit flew. 
His voice ; beheld his speaking face, 
And, dying, from his own embrace. 

She felt that he was true. 

XVII. 

So was he reconciled to life: 
Brief words may speak the rest; 



Wordsworth's poems. 417 

Within the dell he built a cell, 

And there was Sorrow's guest ; 
In hermits' weeds repose he found, 

From vain temptations free ; 
Beside the torrent dwelling — bound 
By one deep heart-controlling sound, 

And awed to piety. 

XVIII. 

Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course, 

Nor fear memorial lays, 
Where clouds that spread in solemn shade. 

Are edged with golden rays ! 
Dear art thou to the light of Heaven, 

Though minister of sorrow ; 
Sweet is thy voice at pensive Even ; 
And thou, in Lovers' hearts forgiven. 

Shall take thy place with Yarrow ! 



THE PET LAMB. 



A PASTORAL. 



Tee dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; 
I heard a voice ; it said, " Drink, pretty Creature, 

drink!" 
And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied 
A snow-white mountain Lamb, with a Maiden at ita 

side- 



418 Wordsworth's poems. 

No other sheep were near, the Lamb was ail alone, 
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stoiic ; 
With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden 

kneel, 
While to that mountain Lamb she gave its evening 

meal. 

riie Lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper 

took, 
Seemed to feast with head and ears, and his ta!'. with 

pleasure shook. 
"Drink, pretty Creature, drink!" she said in such a 

tone 
That I almost received her heart into my own. 

'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a Child of beauty 

rare ! 
I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair. 
Now with her empty Can the Maiden turned away: 
b\it ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she 
stay. 

Towards the Lamb she looked ; and from that shady 

place 
I unobserved could see the workmgs of her face : 
If Nature to her tongue could measured numl)( rs 

bring, 
Tliu3, thought I, to her Lamb that little Maid uiight 

sing : — 

"What ails thee, Young One?— what? Why pull 

so at thy cord ? 
la it not well with thee ? — well both for bed and 

board ? 



Wordsworth's roEMs. \VJ 

Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grays can bo ; 
Rest, little Young One, rest ; what is't thai ailctJi 
thee ? 

"What is it thou wou ast seek? What is wanting to 

thy heart ? 
Thy limbs are they not strong ? and beautiful thou art : 
This grass is tender grass ; these flowers they liave 

no peers ; 
And that green corn all day is rustling in thy cars ! 

" If the Sun be shining hot; do but stretch thy wool- 
len chain, — 

This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst uain ; 

Por rain and mountain storms ! the like thou iiOL-dost 
not fear — 

The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come 
here. 

"Host, little Young One, rest! thou hast forgot the 

day 
When my Father found thee first in places faraway 
Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned 

by none, 
And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gouu, 

"He took thee in his arms, ani! in pity brought th* e 

home — 
A blessed day for thee ! then whither wouldst lliou 

roam ? 
A fvithful Nurse thou hast; the dam that did tlioe 

yean 
Uj)()n the mountain tops no kmdcr could iiave bccii. 



4^0 Wordsworth's poems. 

"Thou knowest that twice a day I brought thee in 

this Can 
Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran ; 
And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with 

dew, 
I bring thee draughts of mild — Avarm milk it is and 

new. 

" Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they 

are now ; 
Then I'll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony in the 

plough : 
My Playmate thou shalt be ; and when the wind is 

cold 
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy 

fold. 

" It will not, will not rest ! Poor Creature, can it be 
That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in 

thee? 
Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear. 
And dreams of things which thou canst neither see 

nor hear. 

" Alas I the mountain tops that look so green and 

fair! 

I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come 

there : 

The httle brooks that seem all pastime and all play, 

When they are angry, roar like Lions for their prey 

" Here thou needest not dread the raven in the sky ; 
Night and day thou art safe, — our cottage is hard by 
Why bleat so after me.'' Why pull so at thy chain .- 
Sleep — and at break of day I will come to thf.u 
ajiain ! " 



Wordsworth's poems. Ai\ 

— As homeward through the lane 1 went with laz^ 

feet, 
This song to myself did I oftentinies repeat ; 
And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line, 
That but half of it was hers, and one half of it waa 

miiie. 

Again, and once again, did I repeat the song ; 

" Nay," said I, " more than half to the Damsel musl 

belong, — 
For she looked with such a look, and she spake witli 

sucii a tone, 
That I almost received her heart into my own." 



HART-LEAP WELL. 



Hart-Leap Well is a small spring- of water, about five miles from 
Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road that leads from 
Richmond to Askrigg. lis name is derived from a remarkable Chase, 
the memory of wliich is preserved by the monuments spoken of in t!ie 
second Part of the following Poem, which monuments do now exisi nt 
I have there described them. 



The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor 
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud ; 
He turned aside towards a Vassal's door, 
And " Bring another horse ! " he cried aloud. 

3r. 



422 wordsavorth's poems. 

" Another horse ! " — That shout the Vassal heard 
And saddled his best Steed, a comely gray ; 
Sir Walter mounted him ; he was the third 
Which ho had mounted on that glorious day. 

Joy sparkled in the prancing Courser's eyes ; 
The Horse and Horseman are a happy pair; 
But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, 
There is a doleful silence in the air. 

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, 
That as they galloped made the echoes roar ; 
But Horse and Man are vanished, one and all ; 
Such race, I think, was never seen before. 

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, 
Calls to the few tired Dogs that yet remain ; 
Blanch, Swift, and. Music, noblest of their kind. 
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. 

The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them ou 
With suppliant gestures and upbraiding stern ; 
But breath and eye-sight fail ; and, one by ono, 
The Dogs are stretched among the mountain fern. 

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race ? 
The bugles that so joyfully were blown ? 
This Chase it looks not like an earthly Chase; 
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. 

The poor Hart toils along the mountain side ; 
I will not stop to tell hoiv far he fled. 
Nor will I mention by what death he died : 
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead. 



Wordsworth's poems. 42J 

Dismountinor, then, he leaned against a thorn ; 
He Imd no follower, Dog, nor Man, nor Boy: 
He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn, 
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. 

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned, 
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat ; 
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned, 
And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet. 

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched : 

His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill ; 

And with the last deep groan his breath had f(=tchc(i 

The waters of the spring were trembling still. 

And now, too happy for repose or rest, 

(Never had living man such joyful lot !) 

Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west. 

And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot. 

And climbing up the hill — (it was at least 
Nine roods of sheer ascent) — Sir Walter found 
Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast 
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. 

Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, "Till now 
Such sight was never seen by living eyes : 
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow, 
Down to the very fountain where he lies. 

I'll build a Pleasure-hous% upon this spot. 
Ami a small Arbor, made for rural joy; 
'Twill be the Traveller's shed, the Pilgrim's cot, 
A olace of love for Damsils that are coy. 



424 Wordsworth's poems. 

A cunning Artist will I have to frame 

A basin for that fountain in the dell ! 

And they who do make mention of the same 

From this day forth, shall call it ftART-LEAP Weli* 

And, gallant Stag ! to make thy praises known, 
Another monument shall here be raised; 
Three several Pillars, each a rough-hewn Stone, 
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed. 

And, in the summer-time, when days are long, 
I will come hither with my Paramour; 
And with the Dancers and the Minstrel's song 
We will make merry in that pleasant Bower. 

Till the foundations of the mountains fail 
My Mansion with its Arbor shall endure ; — 
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, 
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure ! " 

Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead, 
With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring. 
— Soon did the Knight perform what he had said, 
And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. 

Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered, 
A Cup of stone received the living Well ; 
Three Pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared. 
And built a house of Pleasure in the dell. 

And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall 
With trailing plants and trees were intertwined,-* 
Which soon composed a little sylvan Hall, 
A leafy- shelter from the sun and wind 



Wordsworth's poems. 425 

And thither, when the summer-days were long, 
Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour ; 
And, with the Dancers and the Minstrel's song, 
Made merriment within that pleasant Bower 

The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time, 
And his bones lie in his paternal vale. — 
But there is matter for a second rhyme. 
And I to this would add another tale 



PART SECOND. 

The moving accident is not my trade : 
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, 
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. 

As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, 
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell 
Three Aspens at three corners of a square ; 
And one, not four yards distant near a Well. 

What this imported I could ill divine : 
And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, 
I saw three Pillars standing in a line, 
The last Stone Pillar on a dark hill-top. 

The trees were gray, with neither arms nor head, 
Half-wasted the square Mound of tawny green ; 
So that you just might say, as then I said, 
" Here in old time the hand of man hath been." 
36* 



i'^df) WORDSWORTH S POEMS. 

I looked upon the hill both far and near, 
More doleful place did never eye survey; 
It seemed as if the spring-time came not here, 
And Nature here were willing to decay. 

[ stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, 
When one, who was in Shepherd's garb attired. 
Came up the Hollow : — Him did I accost. 
And what this place might be I then inquired. 

The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told 
Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed. 
" A jolly place," said he, " in times of old ! 
But something ails it now ; the spot is curst. 

You see these lifeless Stumps of aspen wood — 
Some say that they are beeches, otliers elms — 
These were the Bower ; and here a Mansion stood, 
The finest palace of a hundred realms ! 

The Arbor does its ov/n condition tell ; 
You see the Stones, the Fountain, and the Stream ; 
But as to the great Lodge ! you might as well 
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 

There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep, 
Will wet his lips within that Cup of stone : 
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, 
This water doth send forth i dolorous groan 

Some say that here a murder has been done. 
And blood cries out for blood ; but, for my part, 
I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun, 
That it was all for that unhappy Hart. 



Wordsworth's poems. 42? 

What thoughts must through the Creature's -brain 

have passed ! 
Even from the topmost Stone, upon the Steep, 
Are but three bounds — and look, Sir, at this last — 
— O Master ! it has been a cruel leap. 

Por thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ; 

And in my simple mind we cannot tell 

What cause the Hart might have to love this place, 

And come and make his death-bed near the Well. 

Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank. 
Lulled by the Fountain in the summer-tide ; 
This water was perhaps the first he drank 
When he had wandered from his mother's side. 

In April here beneath the scented thorn 

He heard the birds their morning carols sing: 

And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born ^ 

Not half a furlong from that self-same spring. 



Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade; 

The sun on drearier Hollow never shone ; 

So will it be, as I have ofter. said, 

Till Trees, and Stones, and Fountain, all are gone; 



"Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well; 
Small difference lies between thy creed and mine 
This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell ; 
His death was mourned by sympathy divine. 

The Being, that is in the clouds and air. 
That is in the green leaves among the groves, 
Maintains a deep' and reverential care 
For the unoifending creatures whom ho loves. 



41?8 Wordsworth's poems. 

The Pleasure-house is dust : — behind, before, 
This is no common waste, no common gloom ; 
But Nature, in due course of time, once more 
Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. 

She leaves these objects to a slow decay, 

That what we are, and have been, may be known ; 

But, at the coming of the milder day, 

These monuments shall all be overgrown. 

One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide. 

Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals ; 

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 

With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." 



EVENING ODE, 



COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EXTRAORDrNART 
SPLENDOR AND BEAUTY. 



Had this effulgence disappeared 
With flying haste, I might have sent, 
Among the speechless clouds, a look 
Of blank astonishment ; 
But 'tis endued with power to stay. 
And sanctify one closing day. 
That frail mortality may see — 
What is ? — ah no, but what can be ! 



WORDS AVORTH's POEMS. 42& 

Time was when field and watery cove 

With modulated echoes rang", 

While choirs of fervent Angels sang 

Their vespers in the grove ; 

Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height. 

Warbled, for heaven above and earth below, 

Strains suitable to both. — Such holy rite, 

Methinks, if audibly repeated now 

From hill or valley, could not move 

Sublimer transport, purer love, 

Than doth this silent spectacle — the gleam — 

The shadow — and the peace supreme! 



No sound is uttered, — but a deep 

And solemn harmony pervades 

The hollow vale from steep to steep, 

And penetrates the glades. 

Far-distant images draw nigh, 

Called forth by wonderous potency 

Of beamy radiance, that imbues 

Whate'er it strikes, with gem-liHe hues ! 

In vision exquisitely clear. 

Herds range along the mountain side ; 

And glistening antlers are described ; 

And gilded flocks appear. 

Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve ! 

But long as god-like wish, or hope divine, 

Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe 

That this magnificence is wholly thine ! 

— From worlds not quickened by the sun 

A portion of the gift is won ; 

An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread 

On ground which British shepherds tread ! 



430 Wordsworth's poems 



And, if there be whom broken ties 
Afflict, or injuries assail. 
Yon hazy ridges to their eyes 
Present a glorious scale, 
Climbing suffused with sunny air, 
To stop — no record hath told where 
And tempting Fancy to ascend, 
And with immortal Spirits blend ! 
— Wings at my shoulder seem to P-ay, 
But, rooted here, I stand and and gaze 
On those bright steps that heaven-ward raise 
Their practicable way. 

Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad. 
And see to what fair countries ye are bound 1 
And if some Traveller, weary of his road. 
Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground, 
Ye Genii ! to his covert speed ; 
And v/ake him with such gentle heed 
As may attune his soul to meet the dower 
Bestowed on this transcendent hour ! 
I 

IV. 

Such hues from their celestial Urn 

Were wont to stream before my eye, 

Where'er it wandered in the morn 

Of blissful infancy. 

This glimpse of glory why renewed ? 

Nay, rather speak with gratitude ; 

For, f a vestige of those gleams 

Survi\ _J, 'twas only in my dreams. 

Dread Power ! whom peace and calmness serve 

No less than Nature's threatening voice. 

If aught unworthy be my choice. 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. i[M 

From Thee if 1 would swerve, 

Oh, let thy grace remind me of the light 

Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored ; 

Which, at this moment, on my waidng sight 

Appears to shine, by miracle restored ! 

My soul, though yet confined to earth, 

Rejoices in a second birth; 

— 'Tis past, the visionary splendor fades ; 

And night approaches with her shades. 



LINES, 



COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERJN ABBF\. <ifl 
REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A ! iM !l. 

— JULY 13, 1798. 

Five years have past; five summers, with tin- 'cugth 

(-)f five long winters ! and again I hear 

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springt! 

With a sweet inland murmur. — Once again 

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs. 

That on a wild secluded scene impress 

Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect 

The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 

The day is come when I again repose 

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 

These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, 

Which at this season, with their unripe fruits. 

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 



432 Wordsworth's poems. 

Among the woods and copses, nor disturb 
The Avild green landscape. Once again I see 
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 
Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farm^, 
Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke 
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees 
With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
Of vagrant Dwellers in the houseless woods, 
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire 
The Hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous Forms, 
Through a long absence, have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; 
And passing even into my purer mind. 
With tranquil restoration ; — feelings too 
Of unremembered pleasure ; such, perhaps. 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's life, 
His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 
To them I may have owed another gift. 
Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood. 
In which the burthen of the mystery. 
In which the heavy and the weary weight 
Of all this unintelligible world, 
Is lightened: — that serene and blessed mood, 
In which the affections gently lead us on, — 
Until the breath of this corporeal frame 
And even the motion of our human blood 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 



Wordsworth's poems. 433 

In bod}', and become a living soul: 
While with an eye made quiet by the power 
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 
We see into the life of things. 

If this 
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft, 
In darkness, and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart. 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 

sylvan Wye ! Thou wanderer through the woods, 
How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 

And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, 

With many recognitions dim and faint, 

And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 

The picture of the mind revives again : 

While here I stand, not only with the sense 

Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 

That in this moment there is life and food 

For future years. And so I dare to hope, 

Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 

1 came among these hills ; when like a roe 
[ bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 
Wherever nature led : more like a man 

Flying from something that he dreads, than one * 
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then 
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days. 
And their g*lad animal movements all gone Dy) 
To me was all in all. I cannot paint 
What then I was. The sounding cata.racr 
37 



434 Wordsworth's poems. 

Haunted ine like a passion: the tall rock, 

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 

Their colors and their forms, were then to mo 

An appetite ; a feeling and a love. 

That had no need of a reaioter charm, 

By thought supplied, or any interest 

Unborrowed from the eye. That time is past, 

And all its aching joys are now no more, 

And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 

Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts 

Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, 

Abundant recompense. For I have learned 

To look on nature, not as in the hour 

Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 

The still, sad music of humanity, 

Nor harsh nor grating, though of i^mple power 

To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 

A presence that disturbs me with the joy 

Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 

Of something far more deeply interfused. 

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 

And the round ocean and the living air, 

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: 

A motion and a spirit, that impels 

All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 

A lover of the meadows and the woods. 

And mountains ; and of all that we behold 

From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 

Of ^ye and ear, both what they half create, 

And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 

In nature and the language of the sense, 

The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 

The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 

Of all my moral being. 



Wordsworth's poems. 4.3.") 

Nor perchance, 
If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay: 
For thou art with rae, here, upon the banks 
Of this fair river ; thou, my dearest Friend, 
My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch 
The language of my former heart, and read 
My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while 
May I behold in thee what I was once. 
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make, 
Knowing that Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege, 
Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
The mind that is. within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues. 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
And let the misty mountain winds be free 
To blow against thee: and, in after years, 
When these wild ecstacies shall be matured 
fnto a sober pleasure, when thy mind 
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms. 
Thy memory be as a dwelling place 
For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then, 
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 



436 Wordsworth's poems. 

And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance 

If I should be where I no more can hear 

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes tnesse g-leama 

Of past existence, wilt thou then forget 

That on the banks of this delightful stream 

We stood together ; and that I, so long 

A worshipper of Nature, hither came 

Unwearied in that service : rather say 

With wanner love, oh ! with far deeper zeal 

Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 

That after many wanderings, many years 

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, 

And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 

More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake I 



STANZAS ON THE POWER OF SOUND 



ARGUMENT. 

The Ear addressed, as occupied by a spiritual functionary, in coin- 
muniou with sounds, individual, or combined in studied harmony. — 
Sources and effects of those sounds (to the close of 6th Stanza ) — Tl»e 
power of music, whence proceeding, exemplified in the idiot. — Origin 
of music, and its effect in early ages — How produced (to i he middle 
of the 10th Stanza.) — The mind recalled to sounds acting casually and 
severally. — Wish uttered (11th Stanza) that these could be united into 
a scheme or system for moral interests and intellectual contemplation. 
{Stanza 12th.) The Pythagorean theory of numbers and music, with 
their supposed power over the motions of the universe — Imaginations 
consonant with such a theory. — Wish expressed, (in lllh Stanza) 
realized, in some degree, by the representation of all sounds under ijie 
form of thanksgiving to the Creator. — (Last Stanza) tne aesiruction 
of earth and the planetary system — The survival of audible harmony, 
and its support in the Divine Nature, as revealed in. Holy W rii. 



WORDSWORTH S POEMS. " 4^57 



Thy functions are ethereal, 

As if within thee dwelt a glancing Mind, 

Organ of Vision ! And a Spirit aerial 

Informs the cell of hearing, dark and blind; 

Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought 

To enter than oracular cave ; 

Strict passage, through which sighs are brought. 

And whispers, for the heart, their slave; 

And shrieks, that revel in abuse 

Of shivering flesh ; and warbled air. 

Whose piercing sweetness can unloose 

The chains of frenzy, or entice a smile 

Into the ambush of despair; 

Hosannas pealing down the long-drawn aisle. 

And requiems answered by the pulse that beats 

Devoutly, in life's last retreats ! 



The headlong Streams and Fountains 

Serve Thee, Invisible Spirit, with untired powers ; 

Cheering the wakeful Tent on Syrian mountains, 

They lull, perchance, ten thousand thousand Fhiwer* 

Tlutt roar, the prowling Lion's Here I am, 

Hov/ fearful to the desert wide! 

That bleat, how tender! of the Dam 

Calling a straggler to her side. 

Shout, Cuckoo! let the vernal soul 

Go with thee to the frozen zone ; 

Toll from thy loftiest perch, lone Bell-bird, toll! 

At the still hour to Mercy dear, 

Mercy from her twilight throne 

Listening to Nun's faint sob of holy fear, 

To Sailor's prayer breathed from a darkening sea, 

Or Widow's cottage lullaby 



438 ' woKus worth's poems. 

III. 

Yg Voices, and ye Shadows, 

And Images of voice — to hound and horn 

From rocky steep and rock-bestiidded meadows 

Fhing" back, and, in the sky's blue caves, reborn, 

On with your pastime! till the church-tower bells 

A greeting give of measured glee ; 

And milder echoes from their ceils 

Repeat the bridal symphony. 

Then, or far earlier, let us rove 

Where mists are breaking up or gone, 

And from aloft look down into a cove 

I'csprinkled with a careless quire, 

Happy Milk-maids, one by one 

Scattering a ditty each to her desire, 

A liquid concert matchless by nice Art, 

A stream as if from one full heart. 



Blest be the song that brightens 

The blind Man's gloom, exalts the Veteran's mirti), 

Unscorned the Peasant's whistling breath, that lightens 

His duteous toil of furrowing the green earth. 

For the tired Slave, Song lifts the languid oar, 

And bids it aptly fall, with chime 

That beautifies the fairest siiore, 

And*mitigates the harshest clime. 

Yon Pilgrims see — in lagging file 

They move ; but soon the appointed way 

A choral Ave Marie shall beguile. 

And to their hope the distant shrine 

Glisten with a livelier ray; 

Nor friendless He, the Prisoner of the Mine, 

Who from the well-spring of his own clear breast 

Han draw, and sing his griefs to rest. 



Wordsworth's poems 43tf 

V. 

When civic renovation 

Dawn^ on a kingdom, and for needful haste 

Best eloquence avails not, Inspirntion 

Mounts with a tune, that travels like a blast 

Piping' through cave and battlemented tower 

Then starts the Sluggard, pleased to meet 

I'hat voice of Freedom, in its power 

Of promises, shrill, wild, and sweet! 

Who, from a martial pageant^ spreads 

Incitements of a battle-day. 

Thrilling the unw^eaponed crowd with piumeless ho.^is. 

Even She whose Lydian airs inspire 

Peaceful striving, gentle play 

Of timid hope and innocent desn-o 

Shot from the dancing Graces, as they move 

Fanned by the plausive wings of Love. 

VI. 

How oft along thy mazes, 

Regent of Sound, have dangerous Passions trod ! 

O Thou, through whom the Temple rings with praise* 

And j'.ackening clouds in thunder speak of God, 

Betray not by the cozenage of sense 

Thy Votaries, wooingly resigned 

To a voluptuous influence 

'I'hat taints the purer, better mind ; 

But lead sick Fancy to a harp 

That hath in noble tasks been tried ; 

And, if the Virtuous feel a pang too sharp, 

Soothe it into patience, — stay 

The uplifted arm of Suicide ; 

And let some mood of thine in firm array 

Knit every thought the impending issue needs, 

Ere Martyr burns, or Patriot bleeds ! 



440 Wordsworth's poems 

VII. 

As Conscience, to the centre 

Of Being, smites with irresistible pain, 

So shall a solemn cadence, if it enter 

The mouldy vaults of the dull Idiot's brain, 

Transmute him to a wretch from quiet hurled — 

Convulsed as by a jarring din ; 

And then aghast, as at the world 

Of reason partially let in 

By concords winding with a sway 

Terrible for sense and soul ! 

Or, awed he weeps, struggling to quell dismay. 

Point not these mysteries to an Art 

Lodged above the starry pole ; 

Pure modulations flowing from the heart 

Of divine Love, where Wisdom, Beauty, Truth, 

With Order dwell, in endless youth ? 



Oblivion may not cover 

All treasures hoarded by the Miser, Time. 

Orphean Insight! Truth's undaunted Lover, 

To the first leagues of tutored passion climb. 

When Music deigned within this grosser sphere 

Her subtle essence to enfold. 

And Voice and Shell drew forth a tear 

Softer than Nature's self could mould. 

Yet strermoiis was the infant Age ; 

Art, daring because souls could feel. 

Stirred nowhere but an urgent equipage 

Of rapt imagination sped her march 

Through the realms of woe and weal : 

Hell to the lyre bowed low ; the upper arch 

Rejoiced that clamorous spell and magic verse 

Her wan disasters could disperse. 



Wordsworth's poems. 441 

IX. 

The Gift to King Amphion 

That walled a city with its melody 

Was for belief no dream : thy skill, Arion ! 

Could humanize the creatures of the sea, 

Where men were monsters. A last grace he craves 

Leave for one chant; — the dulcet sound 

Steals from the deck o'er willing waves, 

And listening Dolphins gather round. 

Self-cast, as with a desperate course, 

'Mid that strange audience, he bestrides 

A proud One docile as a managed horse ; 

And singing, while the accordant hand 

Sweeps his harp, the Master rides ; 

So shall he touch at length a friendly strand, 

And he, with his Preserver, shine star-bright 

In memory, through silent night. 



The pipe of Pan, to Shepherds 

Couched in the shadow of Menalian Pines, 

Was passing sweet; the eyeballs of the Leop-irds, 

That in high triumph drew the Lord of vines, 

How did they sparkle to the cymbal's clang! 

While Fauns and Satyrs beat the ground 

In cadence, — and Silenus swang 

This way and that, with wild-flowers crowned. 

To life, to life give back thine Ear : 

Ye who are longing to be rid 

Of Fable, though to truth subservient, hear 

The little sprinkling of cold eqrth that fell 

Echoed from the coffin lid ; 

The Convict's summons in the steeple knell. 

"The vain distress-gun," from a leward shore, 

Repeated --heard, and heard no more! 



442 Wordsworth's poems. 



For terror, joy, or pity. 

Vast is the compass, and the swell of notes ; 

From the Babe's first cry to voice of regal City, 

Rolling- a solemn sea-like bass, that floats 

Far as the woodlands — with the trill to blend 

Of that shy Songstress, whose love-tale 

Might tempt an Angel to descend, 

While hovering- o'er the moonlight vale. 

O for some soul-affecting scheme 

Of inoral music, to unite 

Wanderers whose portion is the faintest dream 

Of memory ! — O that they might stoop to bear 

Chains, such precious chains of sight 

As labored minstrelsies through ages wear ! 

O for a balance fit the truth to tell 

Of the Unsubstantial, pondered well ! 

XII. 

By one pervading Spirit 

Of Tones and numbers all things are controlled, 

As Sages taught, where faitii was found to merit 

Initiation in that mystery old. 

The Heavens, whose aspect makes our minds as sti; 

As they themselves appear to be, 

Innumerable voices fill 

With everlasting harmony ; 

The towering Headlands, crowued with mist, 

Their feet among the billows, know 

That Ocean is a mighty harmonist ; 

Thy pinions, universal! Air, 

p]ver waving to and fro, 

Are delegates of harmony, and bear 

Strains that support the Seasons in their round : 

Stern. Winter loves a dirge-like sound. 



Wordsworth's poems. 443 



Bread forth into thanksg-iving-, 

Ye banded Instruments of wind and chords ; 

Unite, to magnify the Ever-living, 

Voiir inarticulate notes with the voice of words ! 

Nor hjshed be service from the loving mead, 

Nov mute the forest hum of noon ; 

'J'hou too be heard, lone Eagle ! freed 

From snowy peak and cloud, attune 

Thy hungry barkings to the hymn 

Of joy, that from her utmost walls 

The six-days' Work, by flaming Seraphim, 

Transmits to Heaven ! As Deep to Deep 

Shouting through one valley calls. 

All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep 

For praise and ceaseless gratulation, poured 

Into the ear of God, their Lord ! 

XIV. 

A Voice to Light gave Being ; 

To Time, and Man his earth-born Chronicler ; 

A Voice shall finish doubt and dim foreseeing, 

And sweep away life's visionary stir; 

The Trumpet (we, intoxicate with pride, 

Arm at its blast for deadly wars) 

To archangelic lips applied. 

The grave shall open, quench the stars. 

O Silence ! are Man's noisy years 

No more than moments of thy life ? 

Is Harmony, blest Queen of smiles and tears, 

With her smooth tones and discords just, 

Tempered into rapturous strife. 

Thy destined Bond-slave? No! though Earth be dust 

And vanish, though the Heavens dissolve, her stay 

Is in the Word, that shall not pass away. 



444 Wordsworth's poems. 



SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 

She was a Phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 

A lovely Apparition, sent 

To be a moment's ornament ; 

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; 

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; 

A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free. 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet; 

A Creature, not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiiea. 

And now I see with eye serene 

The very pulse of the machine , 

A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 

A Traveller between life and death ; 

The reason firm, the temperate will, 

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill • 



Wordsworth's poems. 445 

A perfect Woman, nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel lighL 



RUTH. 



When Ruth was left half desolate, 
Her Father took another Mate; 
And Ruth, not seven years old, 
A slighted Child, at her own will 
Went wandering over dale and hill. 
In thoughtless freedom bold. 

And she had made a Pipe of straw, 
And from that oaten Pipe could draw 
All sounds of winds and floods ; 
Had built a bower upon the green. 
As if she from her birth had been 
An infant of the woods. 

Beneath her Father's roof, alone 
She seemed to live ; her thoughts her own ; 
Herself her own delight ; 
Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay ; 
And, passing thus the live-long day, 
She grew to Woman's height. 
38 



*46 wordsavorth's poems. 

There came a Youth from Georgia's shore, 

A military Casque he wore, 

With splendid feathers drest; 

He brought them from the Cherokees ; 

The feathers nodded in the breeze, 

And made a gallant cresL 

From Indian blood you deem him sprung: 
Ah no ! he spake the English tongue, 
And bore a Soldier's name ; 
And, when America ^vas free 
From battle and from jeopardy. 
He 'cross the ocean came. 

With hues of genius on his cheek 
In finest tones the Youth could speak* 
— While he was yet a Boy, 
The moon, the glory of the sun. 
And streams that murmur as they run, 
Had been his dearest joy. 

He was a lovely Youth ! I guess 

The panther in the Wilderness 

Was not so fair as he ; 

And, when he chose to sport and play, 

No dolphin ever was so gay 

Upon the tropic sea. 

Among the Indians he had fought, 
And with him many tales he brought 
• Of pleasure and of fear ; 

Such tales as told to any Maid 

"By such a Youth, in the green shf€o 

Were perilous to hear. 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 44? 

He told of Girls — a happy rout ! 

Who quit their fold with dance and shout 

Their pleasant Indian Town, 

To gather strawberries all day long 

Returning- with a ciioral song 

When daylight is gone down. 

He spake of plants divine and strange 
That every hour their blossoms change, 
Ten thousand lovely hues ! 
With budding, fading, faded flowers 
They stand the wonder of the bowers 
From morn to evening dews. 

He told of the Magnolia, spread 

High as a cloud, high over head ! 

The Cypress and her spire ; 

— Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 

Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 

To set the hills on fire. 

The Youth of green savannahs spake, 
And many an endless, endless lake, 
With all its fairy crowds 
Of islands, that together lie 
As quietly as spots of sky 
Among the evening clouds. 

And then he said, " How sv.-eet it were 

A fisher or a hunter there, 

A gardener in the shade, 

Still wandering with an easy mind, 

To build a household fire, and find 

A home in every glade! 



448 wo aDs worth's poems. 

What days and what sweet years! Ah mo. 

Our life were life indeed, with thee* 

So passed in quiet bliss, 

And all the while," said he, "to know 

That we were in a world of woe, 

On such an earth as this ! " 

And then he sometimes interwove 
Fond thoughts about a Father's love : 
" For there," said he, " are spun 
Around the heart such tender ties, 
That our own children to our eyes 
Are dearer than the sun. 

Sweet Ruth ! and could you g-o with me 

My helpmate in the woods to be, 

Our shed at night to rear ; 

Or run, my own adopted Bride, 

A sylvan Huntress at my side, 

And drive the flying deer ! 

Beloved Ruth ! " — No more he said. 
The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed 
A solitary tear: 

She thought again — and did agree 
With him to sail across the sea. 
And drive the flying deer. 

" And now, as fitting is and right, 

We in the Church our faith will plight, 

A Husband and a Wife." 

Even so they did ; and I may say 

That to sweet Ruth that happy day 

Was more than human life. 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 449 

Through dream and vision did she sink, 
Delighted all the while to think 
That on those lonesome floods, 
And green savannahs, she should share 
His board with lawful joy, and bear 
His name in the wild woods. 

But, as you have before been told. 
This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold, 
And with his dancing crest 
So Beautiful, through savage lands 
Had roamed about, with vagrant bands 
Of Indians in the West 

The wind, the tempest roaring high, 

The tumult of a tropic sky, 

Might well be dangerous food 

For him, a Youth to whom was given 

So much of earth — so much of Heaven, 

And such impetuous blood. 

Whatever in those climes he found 

Irregular in sight or sound 

Did to his mind impart 

A kindred impulse, seemed allied 

To his own powers, and justified 

The workings of his heart 

Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, 
The beauteous forms of nature wrought, 
Fab* trees and lovely flowers ; 
The breezes their own languor lent ; 
The stars had feelings, which they sent 
Into those gorgeous bowers. 
38* 



150 wordsavorth's poemj*. 

Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 
That sometimes there did intervene 
Pure hopes of hig-h intent : 
For passions linked to forms so fair 
And stately, needs must nave their snar^ 
Of noble sentiment. 



But ill he lived, mucn evil saw, 
With men to whom no better law 
Nor better lite wai? known; 
Deliberately, aiid undeceived, 
These wild njen's vices he received 
And gave them back his own. 

His g-enius and his moral frame 
Were thus impaired, and he became 
The slave of low desires : 
A Man who without self-control 
Would seek what the degraded soul 
Unworthily admires. 

And yet he with no feigned delight 
Had wooed the Maiden, day and night 
Had loved her, night and morn: 
What could he less than love a Maid 
Whose heart with so much nature played i 
So kind and so forlorn ! 

Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, 

" O Ruth ! I have been worse than dead ; 

False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain, 

Encompassed me on every side 

When first, in confidence and pride, 

I crossed the Atlantic Main. 



Wordsworth's poems. 451 

It way a fresh and g-lorious world, 

A banner bright that was unfurled 

Before me suddenly : 

I looked upon those hills and plains 

And seemed as if let loose from chains, 

To live at liberty. 

But wherefore speak of this ? for now, 
Sweet Ruth .' with thee, I know not how, 
I feel my spirit burn — 
Even as the east when day comes forth : 
And, to the west, and south, and north, • 
The morning doth return." 

Full soon that purer mind was gone ; 
No hope, no wish remained, not one, — 
They stirred him now no more : 
New objects did new pleasure give, 
And once again he wished to live 
As lawless as before. 

Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, 
They for the voyage were prepared. 
And went to the sea-shore ; 
But, when they thither came, the Youth 
Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth 
Could never find him more. 

" God help thee, Ruth ! " — Such pains she had 

That she in half a year was mad, 

And in a prison housed ; 

And there she sang tunmltuous songs, 

By recollection of her wrongs 

To fearful passion roused. 



452 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, 
Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, 
Nor pastimes of the May. 
— They all were with her in her cell , 
And a wild brook with cheerful kneel 
Did o'er the pebbles play. 

When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, 
There came a respite to her pain ; 
She from her prison fled ; 
But of the Vag-rant none took thought; 
And where it liked her best she sought 
Her shelter and her bread. . 

Among the fields she breathed again: 
The master-current of her brain 
Ran permanent and free ; 
And, coming to the banks of Tone, 
There did she rest; and dwelt alone 
Under the greenwood tree. 

The engines of her pain, the tools 

That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, 

And airs that gently stir 

The vernal leaves, she loved them still, 

Nor ever taxed them with the ill 

Which had been done to her. 

A Barn her ivinter bed supplies ; 

But, till the warmth of summer skies 

And summer days is gone, 

(And all do in this tale agree,) 

She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, 

And other home hath none. 



Wordsworth's poems. 453 

An innocent life, yet far astray! 

And Ruth will, long before her day. 

Be broken down and old : 

Sore aches she needs must have ! but lesg 

Of mind, than body's wretchedness, 

From damp, and rain, and cold. 

If she is prest by want of food, 
She from her dwelling in the wood 
Repairs to a road side ; 
Arid there she begs at one steep place 
Where up and down with easy pace 
The horsemen-travellers ride. 

That oaten Pipe of hers is mute, 
Or thrown away ; but with a flute 
Her loneliness she cheers : 
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, 
At evening in his homeward walk 
The Quantock Woodman hears. 

I, too, have passed her on the hills, 
Setting her little water-mills 
By spouts and fountains wild — 
Such small machinery as she turned 
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned, 
A young and happy Child ! 

Farewell ! and when thy days are told, 

Ill-fated Ruth ! in hallowed mould 

Thy corpse shall buried be : 

For thee a funeral bell shall ring, 

And all the congregation sing 

A Christian psalm for thee. 



454 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 



LAODAMIA 

"With sacrifice before the rising morn 
Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired ; 
And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn 
Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required : 
Celestial pity I again implore ; — 
Restore him to my sight — great Jove, restore 1 " 

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 

With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands 

While, like the Sun emerging from a Cloud, 

Her countenance brightens — and her eye expands. 

Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows ; 

And she expects the issue in repose. 

O terror! what hath she perceived? — O joy! 
What doth she look on? — whom doth she behold? 
Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy ? 
His vital presence — his corporeal mould ? 
It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis He! 
And a God leads him — winged Mercury ! 

Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with his wand 
That calms all fear, "Such grace hath crowned thjf 

prayer, 
Laodamia ! that at Jove's command 
Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air: 
He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space ; 
Accept the gift, behold him face to face ! " 



Wordsworth's poems. 455 

Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp ; 

Again that consummation she essayed ; 

But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp 

As often as that eager grasp was made. 

The Phantom parts — but parts to reunite, 

And reassume his place before her sight. 

" Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 
Confirm, I pray, the Vision with thy voice: 
This is our Palace, — yonder is thy throne; 
Speak, and the floor thou treadest on will rejoice 
Not to appall me have the Gods bestowed , 

This precious boon, — and blest a sad Abode." 

" Great Jove, Laodamia ! doth not leave 
His gifts imperfect: — Spectre though I be, 
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive; 
But in reward of thy fidelity. 
And something also did my worth obtain ; 
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. 

Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold 

That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand 

Should die ; but me the threat could not withhold ; 

A generous cause a Victim did demand ; 

And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain ; 

A self-devoted chief — by Hector slain." 

"Supreme of Heroes — bravest^ noblest, best! 

Thy matchless courage 1 bewail no more, 

Which then, when tens of thousands were depre.^t 

By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ; 

Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — here thou art — 

A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 



456 -Wordsworth's poems. 

But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 

Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; 

And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed 

That thou should'st cheat the malice of the grave ; 

Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 

As when their breath enriched Thessalian air. 

No Spectre greets me, — no vain Shadow this ; 
Come, blooming Hero, place, thee by my side ! 
Give^ on this well known couch, one nuptial kiss 
To me, this day, a second time thy bride ! " 
Jove frowned in heaven: the conscious Parcse threw 
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 

"This visage tells thee that my doom is past: 
Know, virtue were not virtue if the joys 
Of sense were able to return as fast 
And surely as they vanish. — Earth destroys 
Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains: 
Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains. 

Be taught, O faithful Consort, to control 
Rebellious passion: for the Gods approve 
The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul ; 
A fervent, not ungovernable love. 
Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn 
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — " 

" Ah, wherefore ? — Did not Hercules by force 
Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb 
Alcestis, a reanimated Corse, 
Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom ? 
Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, 
And ^son stood a Youth 'mid youthful peers. 



Wordsworth's poems. 457 

The Gods ta us are merciful — and they 

Vet further may relent: for mightier far 

Than streng-th of nerve and sinew, or the sway 

Of magic potent over sun and star, 

Is love, though oft to agony distrest, 

And though his favorite seat be feeble Woman's breast - 

But if thou goest, I follow—" "Peace!" ho said- 
She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered. 
The ghastly color from his lips had fled ; 
In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared 
Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, 
Brought from a* pensive though a happy place. 

He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel 
In worlds whose course is equable and pure; 
No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — 
The past unsighed for, and the future sure ; 
Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 
Revived, with finer harmony pursued ; 

Of all that is most beauteous — imaged there 

In happier beauty : more pellucid streams, 

An ampler ether, a diviner air. 

And fields invested with purpureal gleams ; 

Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day 

Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 

Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned 
That privilege by virtue. — "111," said he, 
"The end of man's existence I discerned. 
Who from ignoble games and revelry 
Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight 
While tears were thy best pastime — day and night 
39 



458 Wordsworth's poems. 

And while my youthful' peers, before my eyes 
(Each Hero following- his peculiar bent) 
Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 
By martial sports, — or seated in the tent, 
Chieftains and kings in council were detained ; 
What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 

The wished-for wind was given: — I then revolved 
The oracle, upon the silent sea ; 
And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 
That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 
The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, — 
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. 

Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang 
When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife ! 
On thee too fondly did my memory hang. 
And on the joys we shared in mortal life, — 
The paths which we had trod — these fountains 

flowers ; 
My new-planned Cities, and unfinished Towers. 

But should suspense permit the Foe to cry, 
'Behold they tremble! — haughty their array. 
Yet of their number no one dares to die ! ' 
In soul I swept the indignity away : 
Old frailties then recurred : — but lofty thought, 
In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 

And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak 

In reason, in self-government too slow ; 

I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 

Our blest reunion in the shades below. 

The invisible world with thee hath sympathized; 

Be thy affections raised and solemnized. 



Wordsworth's poems. 45& 

Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend 
Towards a higher object. — Love was given, 
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end ; 
For tliis the passion to excess was driven — 
That self might be annulled : her bondage prove 
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." 

Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes reappears ! 

Round the dear shade she would have clang — 'tis 

vain : 
The hours are past — too brief had they been years 
And him no mortal effort can detain : 
Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day, 
He through the portal takes his silent way, 
And on the palace floor a lifeless corse she lay. 

By no weak pity might the Gods be moved ; 
She who thus perished, not without the crime 
Of Lovers that in Reason's spite have loved, 
Was doomed to wear out her appointed time. 
Apart from happy Ghosts — that gather flowers 
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. 

Yet tears to human suffering are due ; 
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown 
Are mourned by man, and not by man alone, 
As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
From out the tomb of him for whom she died ; 
And ever, when such stature they had gained 
That Ilium's walls were subject to their view. 
The trees' tall summits withered at the sight ; 
A constant interchange of growth and blight! 



460 



ROB ROY'S GRAVE. 



The history of Rob Roy is sufficiently known; his "rave is neai tne 
head of Loch Ketterine, in one of those small pinfold-like burial-grounds, 
of neglected and desolate appearance, which tlie Traveller meets with 
in the Higlilands of Scotland. 



A FAMOUS Man is Robin Hood, 

The English Ballad-singer's joy ! 

And Scotland has a Thief as good, 

An Outlaw of as daring mood ; 

She has her brave Rob Roy! 

Then clear the weeds from off his Grave, 

And let us chant a passing Stave, 

In honor of that Hero brave! 



Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart, 
And wondrous length and strength of arm ; 
Nor craved he more to quell his Foes, 
Or keep his Friends from harm. 



Yet was Rob Roy as ivise as brave ; 
Forgive me if the phrase be strong — 
A Poet worthy of Rob Roy 
Must scorn a timid song. 



Wordsworth's poems. 461 

Say, then, that he was wise as brave ; 
As wise in thought as bold in deed : 
For in the principles of things 
He sought his moral creed. 

Said generous Rob, " What need of Boc ks ? 
Burn all the Statutes and their shelves* 
They stir us up against our Kind ; 
And worse, against Ourselves. 

We have a passion, make a law, 
Too false to guide us or control ! 
And for the law itself we fight 
In bitterness of soul. 

And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose 
Distinctions that are plain and few : 
These find I graven on my heart : 
That tells me what to do. 

The Creatures see of flood and field 
And those that travel on the wind ! 
With them no strife can last ; they live 
In peace, and peace of mind. 

For why ? — because the good old Rule 
Sufficeth them, the simple Plan, 
That they should take, who have the powei 
And they should keep who can. 

A lesson that is quickly learned, 
A signal this which all can see ! 
Thus nothing here provokes the Strong 
To wanton cruelty. 
3!.>* 



^G2 Wordsworth's poems 

All freakishness of mind is checked; 
He tamed, who foolishly aspires ; 
While to the measure of his might 
Each fashions his desires. 

All Kinds, and Creatures, stand and fall 
By strength of prowess or of wit ; 
'Tis God's appointment Avho must sway 
And who is to submit. 

Since, then, the rale of right is plain, 
;And longest life is but a day; 
To have my ends, maintain my rights, 
I'll take the shortest way." 

And thus among these rocks he lived, 
Through summer heat and winter snow : 
The Eagle, he was Lord above. 
And Rob was Lord below. 

5So was it — would, at least, have been, 
But through untowardness of fate ; 
For Polity was then too strong ; 
He came an age too late, — 

Or, shall we say, an age too soon ? 
For, were the bold Man living noio, 
How might he flourish in his pride, 
With buds on every bough ! 

Then rents and Factors, rights of chase, 
Sheriffs, and Lairds and their domains. 
Would all have seemed but paltry things, 
Not worth a moment's pains. 



Wordsworth's pok»3s. iiyi 

Rob Roy liad never lingered here, 
To these few meagre Vales confined ; 
But thought how wide the world, the times 
How fairly to his mind ! 

And to his Sword he would have said, 
" Do Thou my sovereign will enact 
From land to land through half the earth! 
Judge thou of law and fact ! 

*Tis fit that we should do our part ; 
Becoming, that mankind should learn 
That we are not to be surpassed 
In fatherly concern. 

Of old things all are over old, 
Of good things none are good enough ; 
We'll show that we can help to frame 
A world of other stuff. 

I, too, will have my Kings that take 
From me the sign of life and death : 
Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds, 
Obedient to my breath." 

And, if the word had been fulfilled. 
As might have been, then, thought of joy ! 
France would have had her present boast ; 
And we our own Rob Roy ! 

Oh ! say not so ; compare them not ; 
I would not wrong thee, Champion bravo! 
Would wrong thee nowhere — least of all. 
Here standing- bv thv Crave. 



464 Wordsworth's foems. 

For thou, although with some wild thoughts, 
Wild Chieftain of a savage Clan ! 
Hadst this to boast of — thou didst love 
The libertij of Man. 

And, had it been thy lot to live 
With us who now behold the light, 
Thou wouldst have nobly stirred thyself, 
And battled for the Right. 

For thou wert still the poor man's stay, 
The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand , 
And all the oppressed, who wanted strength^ 
Had thine at their command. 

Bear witness many a pensive sigh 
Of thoughtful Herdsman, when he strays 
Alone upon Loch Veol's Heights, 
And by Loch Lomond's Braes ! 

And, far and near, through vale and hill, 
Are faces that attest the same ; 
The proud heart flashing through the eyes, 
At sound of Rob Roy's name. 



Wordsworth's poems. 465 



YARROW UNVISITEP 



See the various Poems the Scene of which is laid upon the BajiKs nf 
ttie Yarrvjw ; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilloa, begumiug 

" Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow ! " 



From Stirling Castle we had seen 
The mazy Forth unravelled ; 
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, 
And with the Tweed had travelled ; 
And when we came to Clovenford, 
Then said my " winsome Marrow,^ 
"Whatever betide, we'll turn aside, 
And see the Braes of Yarrow." 

"Let Yarrow Folk, /roe Selkirk Town, 

Who have been buying, selling, 

Go back to Yarrow — 'tis their own — 

Each Maiden to her Dwelling! 

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 

But we will downward with the Tweed, 

Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 

There's Galla Water, Leader Hau^hs, 
Both lying right before us ; 



46<i Wordsworth's poems. 

And Dryborough, where with the chiming T\reed 

The Lintwhites sing in chorng : 

There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land 

Made blithe with plough and harrow: 

Why throw away a needful day 

To go in search of Yarrow ? 

What's Yarrow but a River bare, 

That glides the dark hills under ? 

There are a thousand such elsewhere 

As worthy of your wonder." 

— Strange words they seemed of slight and scorH; 

My True-love sighed for sorrow; 

And looked me in the face, to think 

I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 

" Oh ! green," said I, " are Y arrow's Holma, 
And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 
But we will leave it growing. 
O'er hilly path, and open Strath, 
We'll wander Scotland thorough ; 
But, though so near, we will not turn 
Into the Dale of Yarrow. 

Let beeves and home-bred kine partane 
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; 
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake 
Float double, swan and shadow ! 
We will not see them — will not go, 
To-day, nor yet to-morrow; 
Enough if in our hearts we know 
There's such a place as Yarrow. 

Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown ' 
It must, or we shall rue it : 



Wordsworth's poems. H17 

W e have a vision of our own ; 

Ah! why should we undo it? 

The treasured dreams of times long past. 

We'll keep them, winsome Marrow ! 

For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 

'Twill be another Yarrow ! 

If Care with freezing years should come, 

And wanderiDg seem but folly, — 

Should we be loth to stir from home, 

And yet be melancholy ; 

Should life be dull, and spirits low, 

'Twill soothe us in our sorrow, 

That earth has something yet to show. 

The bonny Holms of Yarrow!" 



YARROW VISITED, 

September, 1814. 

Am) is this — Yairow ? — This the Stream 

Of which my fancy cherished, 

So faithfully, a waking dream ? 

An image that hath perished ! 

O that some Minstrel's harp were near, 

To utter notes of gladness. 

And chase this silence from the air 

That fills my heart with sadness ! 



468 \V( RDS worth's POEMS. 

Yet why ? — a silvery current flows 

With uncontrolled meanderings ; 

Nor have these eyes by greener hills 

Been soothed, in all my Avanderings. 

And, through her depths. Saint Marys T-'c 

Is visibly delighted ; 

For not a feature of those hills 

Is in the mirror slighted. 

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale 

Save where that pearly whiteness 

Is round the rising sun diffused, 

A tender hazy brightness ; 

Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 

All profitless dejection; 

Though not unwilling here to admit 

A pensive recollection. 

Where was it that the famous Flower 

Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? 

His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 

On which the herd is feeding: . 

And haply from this crystal pool, 

Now peaceful as the morning. 

The Water-wraith ascended thrice — 

And gave his doleful warning, 

Delicious is the Lay that sings 
The haunts of happy Lovers, 
The path that leads them to the £frove, 
The leaty grove that covers : 
And Pity sanctifies the verse 
That paints, by strengtli of sorrow, 
The unconquerable strength of love ; 
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 



Wordsworth's poems. 4(>y 

But thou, that didst appear so fair 

To fond Imagination, 

Dost rival in the light of day 

Her delicate creation: 

Meek loveliness is round thee spreaa, 

A softness still and holy; 

The grace of forest charms decayed. 

And pastoral melancholy. 

That region left, the Vale unfolds 

Rich groves of lofty stature, 

With Yarrow winding through the pomp 

Of cultivated nature ; 

And, rising from those lofty groves, 

Behold a ruin hoary ! 

The shattered front of Newark's Towpts, 

Renowned in Border story. 

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 

For sportive youth to stray in ; 

For manhood to enjoy his strength ; 

And age to wear away in ! 

Yon Cottage seems a bower of bliss. 

A covert for protection 

Of tender thoughts that nestle there, 

The brood of chaste affection. 

How sweet, on this autumnal day, 
The wild-wood fruits to gather, 
And on my True-love's forehead nlant 
A crest of blooming heather! 
And what if I enwreathed my own . 
'Twere no offence to reason ; 
The sober Hills thus deck their brnwg 
To meet the wintry season. 
40 



470 Wordsworth's poems. 

I see — but not by sight alone 

Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 

A ray of Fancy still survives — 

Her sunshine plays upon thee . 

Thy ever-youthful waters keep 

A course of lively pleasure ; 

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 

Accordant to the measure. 

The vapors linger round the Heights, 
They melt — and soon must vanish ; 
One hour is theirs, no more is mine — 
Sad thouglit, which I would banish. 
But that I know, where'er I go, 
Thy genuine image, Yarrow ! 
Will dwell with me — to heighten joy. 
And cheer my mind in sorrow. 



YARROW REVISITED. 



The following Stanzas are a memorial of a day passed with S.'f 
Waller Scoii, and other Friends visiting the Banks of the Yarrow uj ■ 
der his guidance, immediately before his departure from Al)boi.sford, f( f 
Naples. 

The title, "Yarrow Revisited," will stand in need of no explanatioi 
for Readers acquainted with the Author's previous poems suggested b ' 
.hat celebrated stream. Sen pp. 4().'5 and 467. 



WORDS\^ ORTirS POEMS. 4TI 

The gallant Youth, who may have gained, 

Or seeks a " Winsome Marrow," 
Was but an Infant in the lap 

When first I looked on Yarrow ; * 
Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate 

Long left without a Warder, 
I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, 

Great Minstrel of the Border ! 

Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, 

Their dignity installing 
In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves 

Were on the bough, or falling ; 
But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed — 

The forest to embolden ; 
Reddened the fiery hues, and shot 

Transparence tlirough the golden. 

For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on 

In foamy agitation : 
And slept in many a crystal pool 

For quiet contemplation : 
No public and no private care 

The freeborn mind enthralling. 
We made a day of happy hours, 

Our happy days recalling. 

Brisk Youth appeared, the morn of youth. 

With freaks of graceful folly, — 
Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, 

Her Night not melancholy. 
Past, present, future, all appeared 

In harmony united. 
Like guests that meet, and some from far, 

By cordial love invited. 



472 worpsworth's poems. 

And if, as Yarrow, through the wooda 

And down the meadow ranging, 
Did meet us with unaltered face, 

Thoi%h we were changed and changing; 
If, then, some naturax shadows spread 

Our inward prospect over, 
The sioul's deep valley was not slow 

Its brightness to recover. 

Eternal blessings on the Muse, 

And her divine employment ! 
The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons 

For hope and calm enjoyment; 
Albeit sickness lingering yet 

Has o'er their pillow brooded, 
And Care waylay their steps — a sprite 

Not easily eluded. 

For thee, O Scott! compelled to chanff» 

Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot 
For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes ; 

And leave thy Tweed and Teviot 
For mild Sorento's breezy waves ; 

May classic Fancy, linking 
With native Fancy her fresh aid, 

Preserve thy heart from sinking! 

O ! while they minister to thee. 

Each vying with the other, 
May Health return to mellow Age, 

With Strength, her venturous brother '^ 
And Tiber, and each brook and. rill 

Renowned in song and story. 
With unimagined beauty shine. 

Nor lose one ray of glorv' 



Wordsworth's poems. 47JI 

For Tho.i, upon a hundred streams, 

By talcs of love and sorrow, 
Of faithful love, undaunted truth, 

Hast shed the power of Yarrow; 
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, 

Where'er thy path invite thee. 
At parent Nature's grateful call. 

With gladness must requite Thee. 

A gracious welcome shall be thine, 

Such looks of love and honor 
As thy own Yarrow gave to me 

When first I gazed upon her; 
Beheld what I had feared to see, 

Unwilling to surrender 
Dreams treasured up from early days. 

The holy and the tender. 

And what, for this frail world, were all 

That mortals do or suffer 
Did no responsive harp, no pen, 

Memorial tribute offer? 
Yea, what Avere mighty Nature's self? 

Her features, could they win us, 
Unhelped by the poetic voice 

That hourly speaks within us ? 

Nor deem that localized Romance 

Plays false with our affections; 
Unsanctifies our tears — made sport 

For fanciful dejections : 
Ah, no! the visions of the past 

Sustain the heart in feeling 
Life as she is — our changeful Life, 

With friends and kindred dealing. 
40* 



474 Wordsworth's poems. 

Bear Witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day 

In Yarrow's groves were centered ; 
Who through the silent portal arch 

Of mouldering Newark entered. 
And clomb the winding stair that once 

Too timidly was mounted 
By tlie "last Minstrel," (not the last) 

Ere he his Tale recounted. 

Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream! 

Fulfil thy pensive duty. 
Well pleased that future Bards should chant 

For simple hearts thy beauty, 
To dream-light dear while yet unseen, 

Dear to the common sunshine. 
And dearer still, as now I feel, 

To memory's shadowy moonshine ! 



THE WTSHING-GATE. 



In the vale of Grasineie, by ihe side of the highway, leading to Am- 
bleside, is a gale which, time out of mind, has been called the Wishiiig^- 
gate, from a belief that wishes formed or indulged there havij a favora- 
ble issue. 



Hope rules a land for ever green : 

All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queco 



w^ordsvvorth's poems. 475 

\re confident and gay; 
Clouds at her bidding disappear; 
Points she to aught? — the bliss draws near, 

And Fancy smooths the way. 

Not such the land of wishes — there 
Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer, 

And thoughts with things at strife ; 
Yet how forlorn should ye. depart, 
Ye superstitions of the hearty 

How poor were human life! 

When magic lore abjured its might, 
Ye did not forfeit one dear right. 

One tender claim abate ; ^ 

Witness this symbol of your sway, 
Surviving near the public way. 

The rustic Wishing-gate ! 

Inquire not if the faery race 
Shed kindly influence on the place, 

Ere northward they retired ; 
If here a warrior left a spell, 
Panting for glory as he fell ; 

Or here a saint expired. 

Enough that all around is fair 
Composed with Nature's finest care 

And in her fondest love; 
Peace to embosom and content, 
To overawe the turbulent, 

The selfish to reprove. 

Yea! even the Stranger from afar, 
Reclinmo" on this moss-gfrown bar. 



476 Wordsworth's poems. 

Unknowing and unknown, 
The infection of the ground partakes, 
Longing for his Beloved — who makes 

All happiness her own. 

Then why should conscious Spirits fear 
The mystic stirrings that are here, 

The ancient faith disclaim ? 
The local Genius ne'er befriends 
Desires whose course in folly ends, 

Whose just reward is shame. 

Smile, if thou wilt, but not in scorn, 
If some, by ceaseless pains outworn, 
.Here crave an easier lot ; 
If some have thirsted to renew 
A broken vow, or bind a true. 
With firmer, holier knot. 

And not in vain, when thoughts are cast 
Upon the irrevocable past, 

Some penitent sincere 
May for a worthier future sigh. 
While trickles from his downcast eye 

No unavailing tear. 

The Worldling, pining to be freed 
From turmoil, who would turn or speed 

The current of his fate. 
Might stop before this favored scene. 
At Nature's call, nor blush to lean 

Upon the Wishing-gate. 

The Sage, who feels how blind, how weak 
la man, though loth such help to seek^ 



Wordsworth's poems. 477 

Yet, passing, here might pause, 
And yearn for insight to allay 
Misgiving, while the crimson day 

In quietness withdraws ; 

Or when the church-clock's knell profound 
To Time's first step across the bound 

Of midnight makes reply ; 
Time pressing on with starry crest, 
To filial sleep upon tlie breast 

Of dread eternity ! 



TO THE DAISY 



"Her divine skill taug-ht me this, 
That from every thing I saw 
I could some instruction draw, 
And raise pleasure to the height 
Through the meanest object's sight. 
By the murmur of a spring, 
Or the least bough's rustleing-; 
By a Daisy whose leaves spread, 
Shut when Titan goes to bed; 
Or a shady bush or tree; 
She could more infuse in me 
Thau all Nfflure's beauties can 
In some other wiser man" 

G. WiTHBBa. 



478 Wordsworth's poems. 

In youth from rock to rock I went, 
From hill to hill in discontent 
Of pleasure high and turbulent, 

Most pleased when most uneasy ; 
But now my own delights I make, — 
My thirst at every rill can slake. 
And gladly Nature's love partake 

Of thee, sweet Daisy! 

When Winter decks his few gray hairs, 
Thee in the scanty wreath he wears ; 
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, 

That she may sun thee ; 
Whole summer fields are thine by right ; 
And Autumn, melancholy Wight! 
Doth in thy crimson head delight 

When rains are on thee. 

In shoals and bands, a morrice train. 
Thou greetest the Traveller in the lane ; 
If welcome once thou countest it gain ; 

Thou art not daunted. 
Nor carest if thou be set at nought ; 
And oft alone in nooks remote 
We meet thee like a pleasant thought, 

When such are wanted. 

Bo Violets in their secret mews 

The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose < 

Proud be the Rose, with rains ana dews 

Her head impearling ; 
Thou livest with less ambitious aim, 
Yet hast not gone withojit thy fame ; 
Thou art indeed by many a claim 

The Poet's darling. 



Wordsworth's poems. 47'J 

If to a rock from rains he fly, 
Or, some bright day of April sky, 
Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie 

Near the green holly, 
And wearily at length should fare , 
He needs but look about, and there 
Thou art ! — a Friend at hand, to scare 

His melancholy. 

A hundred times, by rock or bower, 
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour. 
Have I derived from thy sweet power 

Some apprehension ; 
Some steady love; some brief delight; 
Some memory that had taken flight ; 
Some chime of fancy wrong or right ; 

Or stray invention. 

If stately passions in me burn, 

And one chance look to Thee should turn, 

I drink out of an humbler urn 

A lowlier pleasure ; 
The homely sympathy that heeds 
The common life, our nature breeds; 
A wisdom fitted to the needs 

Of hearts at leisure. 

When, smitten by the morning ray, 

I see thee rise, alert and gay. 

Then, cheerful Flower ! my spirits play 

With kindred gladness : 
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest 
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest 
Hath often eased my pensive breast 

Of careful sadness. 



480 Wordsworth's poems. 

And all day long I number yet, 
All seasons through, another debt, 
Which I, wherever thou art met, 

To thee am owing ; 
An instinct call it, a blind sense ; 
A happy, genial influence, 
Ccming one knoAvs not how, nor whence, 

Nor whither going. 

Child of the Year! that round dost run 
Thy course, bold lover of the sun, 
And cheerful when the day's begun 

As morning Leveret, 
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ; 
Dear shalt thou be to future men 
As in old time; — thou not in vain 

Art Nature's favorite. 



WE ARE SEVEN. 

A SIMPLE Child, 

That lightly draws its breath, 

And feels its life in every limb, 
What should it know of death ? 

I met a little cottage Girl; 

She was eight years old, she said; 
Her hair was thick with many a cuu 

That clustered romd her head. 



Wordsworth's poems. 481 

She had a rustic woodland air, 

And she was wildly clad : 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair; 

Her beauty made me glad. 

" Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 

How many may you be ? " 
"How many! Seven in all," she said, 

And wondering looked at me. 

" And where are they ? I pray you tell.* 

She answered, " Seven are we ; 
And two of us at Conway dwell. 

And two are gone to sea. 

Two of us in the church-yard lie. 

My sister and my brother ; 
And, in the church-yard cottage, I 

Dwell near them with my mother." 

*'You say that two at Conway dwell, 

And two are gone to sea. 
Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell, 

Sweet Maid, how this may be." 

Then did the little Maid reply, 

" Seven boys and girls are we ; 
Two of us in the church-yard lie 

Beneath the church-yard tree." 

" You run about, my little Maid, 

Your limbs they are alive ; 
If two are in the church-yard laid, 

Then ye are only five." 
41 



482 WORDSWORTH S POr.MS. 

" Their graves are green, they may be seen,* 

The little Maid replied, 
" Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, 

And they are side by side. 

My stockings there I often knit, 

My kerchief there I hem ; 
And there upon the ground I sit -— 

I sit and sing to them. 

And often after sunset, Sir, 

When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer. 

And eat my supper there. 

The first that died was little Jane ; 

In bed she moaning lay, 
Till God released her of her pain ; 

And then she went away. 

So m the church-yard she was laid ; 

And, when the grass was dry. 
Together round her grave we played, 

My brother John and T. 

And when the ground was white with snu^>', 

And I could run and slide. 
My brother John was forced to go. 

And he lies by her side." 

" How many are you, then," said I, 
"If they two are in Heaven?" 

The little Maiden did reply, 
" O Master ! we are seven " 



Wordsworth's poems. 483 

" But they are dead, those two are deaa I 

Their spirits are in Heaven ! " 
'Twas throwing words away ; for still 
The little Maid would have her will, 

And said, "Nay, we are seven!" 



ODE. 



"VTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTSOW9 
OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. 



The Child is Father of the Man ; 
Ami I could wish my days lo be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 



There was a time vvhen meadow, grove, and strcarDi, 
The earth, and every common sight, 
To me did seem 

Apparelled in celestial light. 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore ; 

Turn wheresoe'er I may, 

By night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 



184 Wordsworth's poems. 

II. 

The Rainbow comes and goes, 

And lovely is the Rose, 

The Moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 

Waters on a starry night 

Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 



Now, while the Birds thus sing a joyous song, 
And while the young Lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief. 

And I again am strong : 
The Cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; 
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, 
The Winds come to nie from the fields of sleep, 
And all the earth is gay ; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity. 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every Beast keep holiday ; — 
Thou Child of Joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
Shepherd Boy ! 



V^e blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 
Ye to each other make ; I see 



Wordsworth's poems. 435 

The heavens laugh with you in your Jubilee ; 

My heart is at your festival, 

My head hatll its coronal, 
The fulness of your bliss I feel — I feel it all. 

Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 

While the Earth herself is adorning 
This sweet May-morning, 

And the Children are pulling, 
On every side. 

In a thousand valleys far and wide, 

Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, 
And the Babe leaps up on his mother's arm : — 

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 

— But there's a Tree, of many one, 
A single Field which I have looked upon, 
Both of them speak of something that is gone: 
The Pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat : 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 



Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
And Cometh from afar, 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

And not in utter nakedness. 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home : 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, 
41* 



486 



WORDSWORTH S POEMS. 



He sees it in his joy ; 
The Youth, who daily farther from the East 

Must travel, still is Nature's Priest 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his \fay attended ; 
At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

VI. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
And, even with something of a Mother's mind 

And no unworthy aim, 

The homely Nurse doth all she can 
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 

Forget the glories he hath known. 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 



Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies. 
Fretted by sallies of his Mother's kisses, 
With light upon him from his Father's eyes 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art, 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral ; 

And this hath now his heart, 

And unto this he frames his song: 
Then will be fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife • 

But it will not be loner 



Wordsworth's poems. 487 

Ere this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little Actor cons another part; 
Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" 
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
That life brings with lier in her Equipage ; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 



Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy Soul's immensity; 
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage; thou Eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep. 
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, — 

Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 

On whom those truths do rest, 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find. 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
A presence which" is not to be put by ; 
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the night 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height. 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight 
Am' custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
Hoa\y as frost, and deep almost as life ! 



O joy ! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live. 



488 Wordsworth's poems. 

That nature yet remembers 

What was so fugitive 
The thought of our past years in mo doth breed, 
Perpetual benediction: not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest ; 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his broast 
Not for thee I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 

But for those obstinate questionings 

Of sense and outward things, 

Fallings from us, vanishings ; 

Blank misgivings of a Creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized. 
High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised: 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections, 

Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence ; truths that wake 

To perish never ; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, 

Nor Man nor Boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy. 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather 

Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea, 

Which brought us hither. 

Can in a moment travel thither, 



wordswormh':? poems. 489 

And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
i\nd hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

X. 

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, smg a joyous song 
And let the young Lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound ! 

We in thought will join your throng, 

Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
Ye that through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May ! 

What though the radiance which was once so bright 

Be now for ever taken from my sight, 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 

Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; 
We will grieve not, rather find 
Strength in what remains behind ; 
In the primal sympathy 
Which having been must ever be ; 
In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering ; 
In the faith that looks through death, 

In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

XI. 

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 
Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 
I only have relinquished one delight, 
To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
I loved the Brooks which down their channels fret, 
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; 
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 
Is lovely yet; 



490 Wordsworth's poems. 

The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
jt'hat hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give; 
Thoughts that too often lie too deep for tears. 



ALICE FELL; 

OR, POVERTY. 

The post-boy drove with fierce career, 

For threatening clouds the moon had drowood 

When, as we hurried on, my ear 
Was smitten with a startling sound. 

As if the wind blew many ways 

1 heard the sound, — and more and more: 

It seemed to follow with the chaise, 
And still I heard it as before. 



At length T to the boy called out; 

He stopped his horses at the word, 
But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, 

Nor ausfht else like it, could be heard. 



Wordsworth's poems. 491 

The boy then smacked his whip, and fast 
The horses scampered through the rain; 

But, hearing soon upon the blast 
The cry, I bade him halt again. 

Forthwith alighting on the ground, 

" Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan ?** 
And there a little Girl I found 

Sitting behind the chaise, alone. 

' My cloak ! " no other word she spake. 

But loud and bitterly she wept, 
xVs if her innocent heart would break ; 
And down from off her seat she leapt. 

" What ails you, child ? " — she sobbed, " Look here ! " 

I saw it in the wheel entangled, 
A weather-beaten rag as e'er 

From any garden scare-crow dangled. 

There, twisted between nave and spoke, 
It hung, nor could at once be freed ; 

But our joint pains unloosed the cloak. 
A miserable rag indeed ! 

"And whither are you going, child. 
To-night along these lonesome ways ? " 
To Durham," answered she, half-wild — 
" Then come with me into the chaise." 

Insensible to all relief 

Sat the poor girl, and forth did send 
Sob after sob, as if her grief 

Ciuld never, never have an end. 



492 Wordsworth's poems 

"My child, in Durham do you dwell?" 
. She checked herself in her distress, 
And said, "My name is Alice Fell; 
I'm fatherless and motherless. 

And I to Durham, Sir, belong." 

Again, as if the thought would choke 

Her very heart, her grief grew strong; 
And all was for her tattered cloak ! 

The chaise drove on ; our journey's end 
Was nigh ; and, sitting by my side, 

As if she'd lost her only friend 
She wept, nor would be pacified. 

Up to the tavern-door we post ; 

Of Alice and her grief I told ; 
And I gave money to the host, 

To buy a new cloak for the old. 

" And let it be of duffel grey, 

As warm a cloak as man can sell ! ''' 

Proud creature was she the next day, 
The little orphan, Alice Pell! 



Wordsworth's poems. 491^ 



WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF 
CHARLES LAMB. 

To a good Man of most dear memory 
This Stone is sacred. Here he lies apart 
From the great city where he first drew breath, 
Was reared and taught; and humbly earned his bread, 
To the strict labors of the merchant's desk 
By duty chained. Not seldom did those tasks 
Tease, and the thought of time so spent depress 
His spirit, but the recompense was high ; 
Firm Independence, Bounty's rightful sire ; 
Affections, warm as sunshine, free as air ; 
And when the precious hours of leisure came. 
Knowledge and wisdom, gained from converse sweet 
With books, or while he ranged the crowded streets 
With a keen eye, and overflowing heart : 
So genius triuu)phed over seeming wrong, 
And poured out truth in works by thoughtful love 
Inspired — works potent over smiles and tears. 
And as round mountain-tops the lightning plays, 
Thus innocent sported, breaking forth 
As from a cloud of some grave sympathy. 
Humor and wild instinctive wit, and all 
The vivid flashes of his spoken words. 
From the most gentle creature nursed in fields 
Had been derived the name he bore — a name 
Wherever Christian altars have been raised. 
Hallowed to meekness and to innocence ; 
And if in him meekness at times gave way, 
Provoked out of herself by troubles strange, 
42 



494 Wordsworth's poems. 

Many and strange, that hung ab.out his life; 

Still, at the centre of his being, lodged 

A soul by resignation sanctified ; 

And if too often, self-reproached, he felt 

That innocence belongs not to our kind, 

A power that never ceased to abide in him, 

Charity, 'mid the multitude of sins 

That she can cover, left not his exposed 

To an unforgiving judgment from just Heaven. 

O, he was good, if ever a good man lived ! 

From a reflecting mind and sorrowing heart 

Those simple lines flowed with an earnest wish, 

Though but a doubting hope, that they might serve 

Fitly to guard the precious dust of him 

Whose virtues called them forth. That aim is nussod 

For much that truth most urgently required 

Had from a faltering pen been asked in vain : 

Yet, haply, on the printed page received, 

The imperfect record, there, may stand nnblamed 

As long as verse of mine shall breathe the air 

Of memory, or see the light of love. 



Thou wert a scorner of the fields, my Friend, 

But more in show than truth ; and from the fields. 

And from the mountains, to thy rural grave 

Transported, my soothed spirit hovers o'er 

Its green untrodden turf, and blowing flowers • 

And taking up a voice shall speak (though still 

Awed by the theme's peculiar sanctity 

Which words less free presumed not even to touch) 

Of that fraternal love, whose heaven-lit lamp 

From infancy, through manhood, to trie last 

Of threescore years, and to thy latesit hour. 



Wordsworth's poems. 4l?5 

Burnt on with ever-strengthening light, enshrined 
Within thy bosom. 

" Wonderful " hath been 
The love established between man and man, 
"Passing the love of women;" and between 
Man and his helpmate in fast wedlock joined 
Through God, is raised a spirit and soul of love- 
Without whose blissful influence Paradise 
Had been no Paradise ; and earth were now 
A waste where creatures bearing human form, 
Direst of savage beasts, would roam in fear, 
Joyless and comfortless. Our days glide on ; 
And let him grieve who cannot choose but grieve 
That he hath been an Elm v/ithout his Vine, 
And her bright dower of clustering charities 
That round his trunk and branches might have clung 
Enriching and adorning. Unto thee, 
Not so enriched, not so adorned, to thee 
Was given (say rather thou of later birth 
Wert given to her) a Sister — 'tis a word 
Timidly uttered, for she lives, the meek. 
The self-restraining, and the ever-kind ; 
In whom thy reason and intelligent hea.rt 
Found — for all interests, hopes, and tender cxrPi^, 
All softening, humanizing, hallowing powers. 
Whether Avithheld, or for her sake unsought — 
More than sufficient recompense I 

Her love 
(What weakness prompts the voice to tell it here?) 
Was as the love of mothers ; and when years, 
Lifting the boy to man's estate, had called 
The long-protected to assume the part 
Of a protector, the first filial tie 



±96 Wordsworth's poems. 

Was undissolved ; and, in or out of sight, 

Remained imperishably interwoven 

With life itself. Thus, 'mid a shifting world, 

Did they together testify of time 

And season's difference — a double tree 

With two collateral stems sprung from one root; 

Such were they — such thro' life they inight have been 

In union, in partition only such ; 

Otherwise wrought the will of the Most High ; 

Yet, through all visitations and all trials, 

Still they were faithful : like two vessels launched 

From the same beach one ocean to explore 

With mutual help, and sailing — to their league 

True, as inexorable winds, or bars 

Floating or fixed of polar ice, allow. 

But turn we rather, let my spirit turn 
With thine, O silent and invisible Friend ! 
To those dear intervals, nor rare nor brief, 
When reunited, and by choice withdrawn 
From miscellaneous converse, ye were taught 
That the remembrance of foregone distress. 
And the worse fear of future ill (which oft 
Doth hang around it, as a sickly child 
Upon its mother) may be both alike 
Disarmed of power to unsettle present good 
So prized, and things inward and outward held 
In such an even balance, that the heart 
Acknowledges God's grace, his mercy feels, 
And in its depth of gratitude is stilL 

O gifl divine of quiet sequestration ! 
The hermit, exercised in prayer and praise. 
And feeding daily on the hope of heaven, 
Is happy in his vow, and fondly cleaves 



wordswor'IH's poems. 4J>/ 

To life-long- singleness ; but happier far 

Was to your souls, and, to the thoughts of others, 

A. thousand times more beautiful appeared 

Your diud loneliness. The sacred tie 

Is broken; yet why grieve? for Time but holds 

His moiety in trust, till Joy shall lead 

■^""i the blest world where parting is unknown. 



ODE TO DUTY. 

** Jam non consiho bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tanttllfi 
recte facere possim, sed nisi recta facere non possim." 

Stern Daughter of the voice of God! 

O Duty ! if that name thou love 

Who art a light to guide, a rod 

To check the erring, and reprove ; 

Thou, who art victory and law 

When empty terrors overawe ; 

From vain temptations dost set free ; 

And calra'st the weary strife of frail humanity' 

There are who ask not if thine eye 
Be on them ; who, in love and truth, 
Where no misgiving is, rely 
Upon the genial sense of youth: 
Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot ; 
Who do thy work, and know it not: 
- 42* 



498 Wordsworth's poems. 

Oh ! if through confidence misplaced 
T)iey fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them 
cast. 

Serene will be our days and bright, 

And happy will our nature be, 

When love is an unerring light, 

And joy its own security. 

And they a blissful course may hold 

Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 

Live in the spirit of this creed : 

Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried ; 

No sport of every random gust. 

Yet being to myself a guide. 

Too blindly have reposed my trust : 

And oft, when in my heart was heard 

Thy timely mandate, I deferred 

The task, in smoother walks to stray, 

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may 

Through no disturbance of my soul, 

Or strong cumpunction in me wrought, 

I supplicate for thy control : 

But in the quietness of thought; 

Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 

\ feel the weight of chance-desires : 

My hopes no more must change their name, 

I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Stern Lawgiver I yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
Nor know we any thing so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face : 



WORDS WMJRTil's POKMS. i^^.i 

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, 
And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are 
fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power! 

I call thee : I myself commend 

Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 

Oh, let my weakness have an end! 

Give unto me, made lowly wise, 

The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 

The confidence of reason give : 

And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live ! 



TO A SKY-LARK. 

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ? 
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
Those quivering wings composed, that music still! 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; 

A privacy of glorious light is thine ; 

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 

Of harmony, with instinct more divine ; 

Type of the wise who soar, but never ro.un ; 

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home ! 



500 Wordsworth's poems 



SONNET. 

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned. 

Mindless of its just honors ; with this key 

Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody 

Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; 

A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; 

With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief; 

The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 

Amid the cypress with which Dante croAvned 

His visionary brow ; a glow-worm lamp, 

It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land 

To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp 

Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 

The Thing became a trumpet ; whence he blew 

Soul-animating strains — alas, too few] 



LUCY. 



She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A Maid whom there were none to praise 

And very few to love. 



Wordsworth's poems. 50) 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye ! 
— Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining- in the sivy. 

She lived unknown •r.'^ few could know 

When Lucy ceasea to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and oh, 

The difference is to me! 



LINES 

I»i^ THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROai 
ABBOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES. 

A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping r.uii, 

Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light 

Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple heiglii. ; 

Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain 

For kindred Power departing from their sight ; 

While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain. 

Saddens his voice again, and yet again. 

Lift up your hearts, ye mourners! for the might 

Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes ; 

Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue 

Than sceptered king or laurelled conqueror knows^ 

Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, 

Ye winds of ocean, and 'the midland sea, 

Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenopo ! 



502 Wordsworth's poems. 



TO JOANNA. 

Amid the smoke of cities did you pass 

The time of early youth ; and there you learned, 

From years of quiet industry, to love 

The living- Belng-s by your own fire-side, 

With such a strong- devotion, that your heart 

Is slow to meet the sympathies of them 

Who look upon the hills with tenderness, 

And make dear friendship with the streams and groves 

Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind, 

Dwelling retired in our simplicity 

Among the woods and fields, we love you well, 

Joanna ! and I guess, since you have been 

So distant from us now for two long years, 

That you will gladly listen to discourse, 

However trivial, if you thence be taught 

That they, with whom you once were happy, talk 

Familiarly of you and of old times. 

While I was seated, now some ten days past, 

Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop 

Their ancient neighbor, the old steeple-tower. 

The Vicar, from his gloomy house hard by. 

Came forth to greet me ; and when he had asked 

" How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid ? 

And M'hen will she return to us?" he paused; 

And, after short exchange of village news. 

Ho witii grave looks demanded, for what cause, 

Reviving obsolete idolatry, 

I, like a Runic Priest, in characters 



WORDSWORTH'S I'OEMS. 5()3 

Of formidable size, had chiselled out 
Some uncouth name upon the native rock, 
Above the Rotha, by the forest-side. 
Now, by those dear immunities of heart 
Engendered between malice and true love, 
I was not loth to be so catechized, 
And this was my reply: — "As it befel 
One summer morning we had walked abroad 
At break of day, Joanna and myself. 

— 'Twas that delightful season when the broon-.. 
Full-flowered, and visible on every steep, 
Along the copses runs in veins of gold. 

Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks ; 

And when we came in front of that tall rock 

That eastward looks, I there stopped short — and si^uM^ 

Tracing the lofty barrier with tny eye 

From base to summit ; such delight I found 

To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower, 

That intermixture of delicious hues, 

Along so vast a surface, all at once, 

in one impression, by connecting force 

O^ their own beauty, imaged in the heart 

— When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space, 
Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld 

That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. 
The Rock, like something starting from a sleep, 
Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again: 
That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag 
Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-scar, 
And the tall steep of Silver-how. sent forth 
A noise of laughter ; southern Louhrigg heard, 
And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone ; 
Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky 
Carried the Lady's voice, — old Skiddaw blew 
His speaking-trumpet ; — back out of the clouds 



504 Wordsworth's poems. 

Of Glarmara southward came the voice ; 
And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head. 

— Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend, 
Who in the heyday of astonishment 

Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth 

A work accomplished by the brotherhood 

Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched 

With dreams and visionary impulses 

To me alone imparted, sure I am 

That there was a loud uproar in the hills. 

And, while we both were listening, to my side 

The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished 

To shelter from some object of her fear. 

— And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons 
Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone 
Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm 

And silent morning, I sat down, and there, 
In memory of affections old and true, 
I chiselled out in those ruue characters 
Joanna's name deep in the living stone; — 
And I, and all who dwell by my fireside. 
Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock.'' 



Wordsworth's poems. 505 



ELEGIAC STANZAS. 

The lamonted Youth whose untimely death gave occasion to theso 
elegiac verses, was Frederick "William Goddard, from Bvston, in North 
America. He was in his twentieth year, and had resided tor some time 
with a clergyman in the neighborhood of Geneva, for the completion of 
his education. Accompanied by a fellow-pupil, a native of Scotland, he 
had just set out on a Swiss lour, when it was his misfortune to fall in 
with a friend of mine who was hastening to join our party. The travel- 
lers, after spending a day together on the road from Berne and at Soleure, 
took leave of each other at night, the young men having intended lo 
proceed directly to Zurich. But early in the morning my friend found 
his new acquaintances, who were inlbrmed of the object of his journey, 
and the friends he was in pursuit of, equipped to accompany him. AVe 
met at Lucerne the succeeding evening, and Mr. G. and his fellow-stu- 
dent became in consequence our travelling companions for a couple of 
days. We ascended the Righi together; and after contemplating the 
sunrise from that noble mountain, we separated at an hour and on a spot 
well suited to the parting of those who were to meet no more. Our 
party descended through the valley of our Lady of the Snow, and our 
late companions, to Art. We had hoped to meet in a few weeks at 
Geneva; but on the third succeeding day (on the 21st of August) Mr. 
Goddard perished, being overset in a boat while crossing the lake of 
Zurich. His companion saved himself by swimming, and was hospita- 
7 TC-'cived in the mansion of a Swiss gentleman {M. Kelier) situated 
on .l-.e eastern coast of the lake. The corp.-e of poor Goddard \vas cast 
ashore on the estate of the same gentleman, who generously performed 
aJl the rites of hospitality which could be rendered to the dead as well 
as to the living. He caused a handsome mural monument to be erected 
in the church of Kusnacht, which records the premature fate of the 
yomig American, and on the shores too of the lake the traveller may 
read an inscription pointing out the spot where the body was depc€ited 
bv the waves. 



Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells, 
Rude Nature's Pilgrims did we go, 
From the dread summit of the Queen 
Of mountains, through a deep ravine, 
!3 



5(H) Wordsworth's poems. 

Where, in her holy Chapel, dwells 
"Our Lady of the Snow." 

The sky was blue, the air was mild ; 

Free were the streams and green the bowei 

As if, to rough assaults unknown, 

The genial spot had ever shown 

A countenance that as sweetly sinilea, 

The face of summer-hours. 

And we were gay, our hearts at ease; 
With pleasure dancing through the frame 
We journeyed ; all we knew of care — 
Our path that struggled here and there, 
Of trouble — but the fluttering breeze, 
Of winter — but a name. 

If foresight could have rent the veil 
Of three short days — but hush — no more ! 
Calm is the grave, and calmer none 
" Than that to which thy cares are gone. 
Thou Victim of the stormy gale ; 
Asleep on Zurich's shore! 

Oh GoDUARi) ! what art thou? — a name — 
A sunbeam followed by a shade ! 
Nor more, for aught that time supplies, 
The great, the experienced, and the wise: 
Too much from this frail earth we clatm. 
And therefore are betrayed. 

We met, while festive mirth ran wild. 
Where, from a deep lake's mighty urn, 
Forth slips, like an enfranchised slave, 
A sea-green river, j)roud to lave, 



Wordsworth's poem^ 5()7 

With current swift and undefiled, 
The towers of old Lucerne. 

We parted upon solemn ground, 
Par-lifted towards the unfading- sky ; 
But all our thoughts were then of Earth. 
That gives to common pleasures birth ; 
And nothing in our hearts we found 
That prompted even a sigh. 

Fetch, sympathizing Powers of air, 
Fetch, ye that post o'er seas and lands, 
Herbs moistened by Virginia dew, 
A most untimely grave to strew, 
Whose turf may never know the care 
Of kindred human hands ! 

Beloved by every gentle Muse 

He left his Transatlantic home ! 

Europe, a realized romance, 

Had opened on his eager glance ; 

What present bliss ! — what golden views ! 

What stores for years to come ! 

Though lodged within no vigorous frame, 
His soul her daily tasks renewed, 
Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings 
High poised — or as the wren that sing.-:^ 
In shady places, to proclaim 
Her modest gratitude. 

Not vain is sadly-uttered praise : 
The words of truth's memorial vow, 
Are sweet as morning fragrance shed 
From flowers 'mid Goldau's rums bred ; 



508 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

As evening's fondly lingering rays, 
On RiGHi's silent brow. 

Lamented Youth ! to thy cold clay 
Fit obsequies the Stranger paid; 
And piety shall guard the Stone 
Which hath not left the spot unknown 
Where the wild waves resign their prej? 
And thai which marks thy bed. 

And, when thy Mother weeps for Thae 
Lost Youth ! a solitary Mother : 
This tribute from a casual Friend 
A not unwelcome aid may lend, 
To feed the tender luxury, 
The rising pang to smother. 



A POET'S EPITAPH. 

Art thou a Statist, in the van 

Of public conflicts trained and brof' ' 

First learn to love one living man ; 
TJien may'st thou think upon the dead 

A Lawyer art thou ? — draw not nigh ! 

Go, carry to some fitter place 
The keenness of that practised eye. 

The hardness of that sallow face. 



Wordsworth's poems. 509 

Art thou a man of purple cheer ? 

A rosy Man, right plump to see ? 
Approach ; yet, Doctor, not too near, 

This grave no cushion is for thee. 

Or art thou one of gallant pride, 

A Soldier, and no man of chaff? 
Welcome ! — but lay thy sword aside, 

And lean upon a peasant's staff. 

Physician art thou ? one, all eyes, 

Philosopher ! a fingering slave, 
One that would peep and botanize 

Upon his mother's grave ? 

Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, 

O turn aside, — and take, I pray, 
That he alone may rest in peace, 

Thy ever-dwindling soul away ! 

A. Moralist perchance appears ; 

Led, Heaven knows how ! to this poor sod , 
And he has neither eyes nor ears ; 

Himself his world, and his own God ; 

One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling 
Nor form, nor feeling, great or small ; 

A reasoning, self-sufficing thing. 
An intellectual All-in-all ! 

Shut close the door ; press down the latch ; 

Sleep in thy intel.ectual crust ; 
Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch 

Near this unprofitable dust. 
43* 



i>lO WORDS WOKTH'S ICKRiS. 

But who is He, with modest looks, 
And clad in homely russet-brown? 

He murmurs near the running brooks 
A music sweeter than their owu 

He is retired as noontide dew, 
Or fountain in a noon-day grove. 

And you must love him, ere to you 
He will seem worthy of your love. 

The outward shows of SKy and earth, 
Of hill and valley, he has viewed ; 

And impulses of deeper birth 
Have come to him in solitude. 

In common things that round us lie 
Some random truths he can impart, — 

The harvest of a quiet eye 

That broods and sleeps on his own heart. 

But he is weak ; both Man and Boy, 
Hath been an idler in the land ; 

Contented if he might enjoy 

The things which others understand. 

Come hither in thy hour of strength ; 

Come, weak as is a breaking wave ! 
Here stretch thy body at full length ; 

Or build thy house upon this grave. 



TVOHDS worth's POEMS. Ml 



THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. 

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, 
Hangs a Thrush that sings loi d — it has sung for 

three years : 
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has ho ird 
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird, 

Tis a note of enchantment ; what ails her ? she sees 
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; 
Bright columns of vapor through Lothbui-y glide, 
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail ; 
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, 
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 

She looks, and her heart is in heaven ; but th.cy fide^ 
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade : 
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise. 
And the colors have all passed away from her eyes ! 



513 WORDS W ORTH's POEMS. 



TO THE CUCKOO. 

O BLITHE New-comer! I have beard, 

I hear thee, and rejoice. 
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, 

Or but a wandering- Voice ? 

While I am lying on the grass 

Thy two-fold shout I hear. 
From bill to hill it seems to pass, 

At once far off, and near. 

Though babbling only to the Vale, ■ 
Of sunshine and of flowers. 

Thou bringest upto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome ! darling of the Spring 

Even yet thou art to me 
No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery ; 

The same whom in rny school-boy days 

I listened to ; that Cry 
Which made me look a thousand waya 

In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 

Through woods and cm the green ; 

And thou wert still a hope, a love 
Still longed for, never seen. 



\VORnSWf»RTH S POEMS. 513 

And I can listen to thee yet : 

Can lie upon the plain 
And listen till I do beget 

That golden time again. 

O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 

Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, faery place ; 

That is fit home or Thee! 



SONNET, 



COMPOSED BT THE SEA-SIDE NEAR CALAIS, 
AUGUST, 1802. 

Fair Star of evening, Splendor of the west, 
Star of my Country! — on the horizon's brink 
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink 
On England's bosom ; yet well pleased to rest, 
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest 
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, 
Should'st be my Country's emblem : and should'st wink, 
Bright Star ! with laughter on her banners, drest 
In thy fresh beauty. There ! that dusky spot 
Beneath thee, that is England ; there she lies. 
Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot, 
One life, one glory ! — I, with many a fear 
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs, 
Among men wlio do not love her, linger here. 



514 w^ORDs worth's poems. 



TO THE SOINS OF BURNS, 

AJf'TER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THKIR FAT!i£?5. 

'Mid crowded obelisks and urns 

1 sought the untimely grave of Burns ; 

Sons of the Bard, my heart still nioura» 

With sorrow true ; • 
And more would grieve, but that it turn.s 

Trembling to you .' 

Through twilight shades of good and ill 

Ye now are panting up life's hill, 

And more than common strength and skill 

Must ye display ; 
If ye would give the better will 

Its lawful sway. 

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear 
Inteuiperance with less harm, beware 
But if the Poet's wit ye share, 

Like him can speed 
The social hour — of tenfold care 

There will be need. 

For honest men delight will take 
To spare your failings for his sake, 
Will flatter you, — and fool and rake 

Your steps pursue ; 
And of your Father's name will makci 

A snare for you. 



WORDSWORTH S POEMS. 515 

Far from their noisy haunts retire 
And add your voices to the quire 
That sanctify the cottage fire 

With service meet ; 
There seek the genius of your Sire, 

His spirit greet! 

O where, 'mid " lonely heights and hows,** 
He paid to Nature tuneful vows ; 
Or wiped his honorable brows 

Bedewed with toil, 
While reapers strove, or busy plougns 

Upturned the soil ; 

His judgment with benignant ray 
Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way ; 
But ne'er to a seductive lay 

Let faith be given ; 
Nor deem that " light which leads astray, 

Is light from Heaven." 

Let no mean hope you souls enslave ; 
Be independent, generous, brave ; 
Your father such example gave, 

And such revere ; 
But be admonished uy his grave, 

And think, and fear ! 



516 Wordsworth's poems. 



SONNET. 

Oh what a wreck ! how changed in mien and speech 
Yet — though dread Powers, that work in mystery 

spin 
Entanglings of the brain; though shadows stretch 
O'er the chilled heart — reflect ; far, far within 
Hers is a holy Being, freed from Sin. 
She is not what she seems, a forlorn wretch, 
But delegated Spirits comfort fetch 
To Her from heights that Reason may not win. 
Like Children, She is privileged to hold 
Divine communion ; both to live and move, 
Whate'er to shallow Faith their ways unfold, 
Inly illumined by Heaven's pitying love ; 
Love pitying innocence not long to last. 
In them — in Her our sins and sorrows past 



THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE. 

'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined, 
The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind, 
And the small critic wielding his delicate pen, 
That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men. 



WOKDSWORTr S FOEMS. in'/ 

He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town; 
His staff is a sceptre — his ^rey hairs a crown-. 
And his bright eyes look brighter set off by tha { 
streak / 

Of the unfaded rose that stlil blooms on his cheek. 



'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn, — 'mid the 

joy 

Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy ; 
That countenance there fashioned,, which, spite of a 

stain 
That his life hath received, t'^ tlie .as'„ ^vill remain. 

A Farmer he was'; and hi^s iiouse far and near 
Was the boast of the country for excellent cheer : 
How oft have I heara in sweet Tilsbury Vale 
Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his mild 
ale ! . 

Yet Adam was far as the farthest. from ruin. 

His fields seemed to know what their Master wag 

doing ; 
And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea, 
All caught the infection — as generous as he. 

Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl, — • 
Th3 fields better suited the ease of his soul: 
He strayed through the fields like an indolent wight 
The qiiet of Nature was Adam's delight. 

For Adam was simple in thought; and the poor, 
Familiar with him, made an inn of his door; 
He gave them the best that he had ; or, to say 
What less may mislead you, they took it away 
44 



518 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm* 
The Genius of plenty preserved him from harm : 
At length, what to most is a season of sorrow, 
His means are run out, — he must beg, or must bor- 
row. 

To the neighbors he went, — all were free with their 
money ; 

For his hive had so long been replenished with honey 

That they dreamt not of dearth ; — he continued hia 
rounds, 

Knocked here — and knocked there, pounds still add- 
ing to pounds. 

He paid what he could with his ill-gotten pelf, 
And something, it might be, reserved for himself: 
Then (what is too true) without hinting a word. 
Turned his back on the country — and off like a bird 

You lift up your eyes ! — but I guess that you frame 
A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame; 
In him it was scarcely a business of art, 
For this did he all in the ease of his heart. 

To London — a sad emigration I ween — 

With his grey hairs he went from the brook and the 

green ; 
And there, with small wealth, but his legs and h"s 

hands, 
As lonely he stood as a crow on the sands. 

All trades, as need was, did old Adam assume, — 
Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, . porter, and groom 
But nature is gracious, necessity kind, 
And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his mind 



Wordsworth's poems. 519 

He seems ten birth-days younger, is green and is 

stout ; 
Twice as fast as before does his blood run about; 
You would say that each hair of his beard was alive, 
And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive. 

For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely goes 
About work that he knows, in a track that he k'lous; 
But often his mind is compelled to demur, 
And you guess that the more then his body must 
stir. 

In the throng of the town like a stranger is ho, 
Like one whose own country's far over the se;i ; 
And Nature, while through the great city he liics. 
Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprisi.-. 

This gives him the fancy of one that is young, 
More of soul in his face than of words on his 

tongue ; 
Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and sigh.-, 
And tears of fifteen will come into his eyes. 

What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats? 
Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets ; 
With a look of such earnestness often will stand, 
You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in f lie 
Strand. 

Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours 

Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and Iter 

flowers. 
Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made 
Poor winter look fine in such strange masquerade. 



520 Wordsworth's poems. 

'Mid coaches and chariots, a wagon of straw, 
Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can draw ; 
With a thousand soft pictures his memory will teem, 
And his hearing is touched with the sounds of e 
dream. 

Up the Hay market hill he ofl whistles his way, 
Thrusts his hands in a wagon, and smells at the lusy; 
lie thinks of the fields he so often hath mown, 
And is happy as if the rich freight were his own. 

But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to repair, — 
If you pass by at morning, you'll meet with him there. 
The breath of the cows you may see him inhale, 
And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury Vale. 

Now farewell, old Adam ! when low thou art laid 
May one blade of grass spring up over thy head ; 
And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever it be. 
Will hear the wind sigh through the leaves of a ireo. 



INCIDENT AT BRUGES. 

In Bruges town is many a street 

Whence busy life hath fled ; 
Where, without hurry, noiseless feet, 

The grass-groAvn pavement tread. 
There heard we, halting in the shade 

Flung from a Convent-tower, 
A harp that tuneful prelude made 

To a voice of thrilling power. 



Wordsworth's poems. 521 

The measure, simple truth to tell, 

Was fit for some gay throng; 
Though from the same grim turret fell 

The shadow and the song. 
When silent were both voice and chords, 

The strain seemed doubly dear, 
Yet sad as sweet, — for English words 

Had fallen upon the ear. 

It was a breezy hour of eve ; . 

And pinnacle and spire 
Quivered and seemed almost to heave, 

Clothed with innocuous fire ; 
But, where we stood, the setting sun 

Showed little of his state; 
And, if the glory reached the Nun, 

'Twas through an iron grate. 

Not always is the heart unwise, 

Nor pity idly born, 
If even a passing stranger sighs 

For them who do not mourn. 
Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove, 

Captive, whoe'er thou be ! 
Oh ! what is beauty, what is love, 

And opening life to thee ? 

Such feeling pressed upon my soul, 

A feeling sanctified 
By one soft trickling tear that stole 

From the Maiden at my side ; 
Less tribute could she pay than this, 

Borne gaily o'er the sea. 
Fresh from the beauty and the bliss 

Of English liberty? 
44* 



522 WORDSWORTfl's POEMS. 



SONNET. 

Great men have been among us ; hands that penned 

And tongues that uttered wisdom — better none : 

The later Sidney, Marvel Harrington, 

Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend. 

These moralists could act and comprehend : 

They knew how genuine glory was put on ; 

Taught us how rightfully a nation shone 

In splendor: what strength was, that would not bend 

But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange, 

Hath brought -forth no such souls as we had then. 

Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change ! 

No single volume paramount, no code. 

No master spirit, no determined road ; 

But equally a want of books and men! 



GRACE DARLING. 

Among the dwellers in the silent field 

The natural heart is touched, and public way 

And crowded street resound with ballad strains, 

Inspired by one wlwse very name bespeaks 

Favor divine, exalting human love; 

Whom, since her birth on bleak Northumbria's coast, 



WORDSWORTH S POEMS. li'dS 

Known unto few, but prized as far as known, 
A single Act endears to high and low 
Through the whole land — to Manhood, moved in spite 
Of the world's freezing cares — to generous Youth — 
To Infancy, that lisps her praise — to Age 
Whose eye reflects it, glistening tlirough a tear 
Of tremulous admiration. Such true fame 
, Awaits her now ; but, verily, good deeds 
Do not imperishable record find 
Save in the rolls of heaven, where hers may live 
A theme for angels, when they celebrate 
The high-souled virtues which forgetful earth 
Has witnessed. Oh ! that winds and waves could speak 
Of things Avhich their united power called forth 
From the pure depths of her humanity ! 
A Maiden gentle, yet, at duty's call, 
Firm and unflinching, as the Lighthouse reared 
On the Island-rock, her lonely dwelling-place; 
Or like the invincible Rock itself that braves, 
Age after age, the hostile elements. 
As when it guarded holy Cuthbert's cell. 

All night the storm had raged, nor ceased, nor paused, 
When, as day broke, the Maid, through misty air, 
Espies far off a Wreck, amid the surf, 
Beating on one of those disastrous isles — 
Half of a vessel, half — no more; the rest 
Had vanished, swallowed up with all that there 
Had for the common safety striven in vain, 
Or thither thronged for refuge. With quick glance 
Daughter and Sire through optic-glass discern, 
C.inging about the remnant of this Ship, 
Creatures, how precious in the Maiden's sight! 
For whom, belike, the old Man grieves still more 
Than for their fellow-sufferers engulfed 



^)24 avordsworth's poems. 

Wnere every parting agony is hushed, 

And hope and fear mix not in open strife. 

" But courage, Father ! let us out to sea — 

A few may yet be saved." The Daughter's words, 

Her earnest tone, and look beaming with faith, 

Dispel the Father s doubts : nor do they lack 

The noble-minded Mother's helping hand 

To launch the boat ; and with her blessing cheered 

And inwardly sustained by silent prayer, 

Together they put forth, Father and Child ! 

Each grasps an oar, and struggling on they go — 

Rivals in effort ; and, alike intent 

Here to elude and there surmount, they watch 

The billows lengthening, mutually crossed 

And shattered, and re-gathering their might; 

As if the tumult, by the Almighty's will 

Were, in the conscious sea, roused and prolonged 

That woman's fortitude — so tried, so proved — 

May brighten more and more ! 

True to the mark, 
They stem the current of that perilous gorge, 
Their arms still strengthening with the strengthening 

heart, 
Though danger, as the Wreck is neared, becomes 
More imminent. Not unseen do they approach; 
And rapture, with varieties of fear 
Incessantly conflicting, thrills the frames 
Of those who, in that dauntless energy. 
Foretaste deliverance; but the least perturbed 
Can scarcely trust his eyes, when he perceives 
Tha£ of the pair — 'tossed on the waves to bring 
Hope to the hopeless, to the dying, life — 
One is a Woman, a poor earthly sister, 
Or, be the Visitant other than sne seems. 



WORDSWORTH S POEMS. S^^y 

A guardian Spirit sent from pitying Heaven, 

In Woman's shape. But why prolong the tale, 

Casting meek words amid a host of thoughts 

Armed to repel them ? Every hazard faced 

And difficulty mastered, with resolve 

That no one breathing should be left to perish, 

This last remainder of the crew are all 

Placed in the little boat, then o'er the deep 

Are -safely borne, landed upon the beach, 

And, in fulfilment of God's mercy, lodged 

Within the sheltering Lighthouse. Shout, ye Waves . 

Send forth a song of triumph. Waves and Winds, 

Exult in this deliverance wrought through faith 

In Him whose Providence your rage hath served ! 

Ye screaming Sea-mews, in the concert join ! 

And would that some immortal Voice — a Voice 

Fitly attuned to all that gratitude 

Breathes out from floor or couch, through pallid lips 

Of the survivors — to the clouds might bear — 

Blended with praise of that parental love, 

Beneath whose watchful eye the Maiden grew 

Pious and pure, modest and yet so brave. 

Though young, so wise, though meek so resolute — 

Might carry to the clouds and to the stars, 

Vea, to celestial Choirs, Grace Darling's name ! 



V2f) WORDS K^ORTH's rOKMS. 



SONNKT, 

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICIIAKL ANGKfJi. 

V^ES ! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, 

And I be undeluded, unbetrayed ; 

For if of our affections none find grace 

In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hatii God made 

The world which we inhabit? Better plea 

Love cannot have, than that in loving thee 

Glory to that eternal Peace is paid, 

Who such divinity to thee imparts 

As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. 

His hope is treacherous only whose love dies 

With beauty, which is varying every hour ; 

But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power 

Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower 

That breathes on earth the air of paradise. 



Glad sight, wherever new with old 
Is joined through some dear homeborn tm 
The life of all that we behold 
Depends upon that mystery. 
Vain is the glory of the sky, 
The beauty vain of field and grove 
Unless, while with admiring eye 
We gaze, we also learn to love. 



'ordsworth's poems. 527 



SONNET. 

V 

Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat 

Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied ; 

With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side, 

And the glad Muse at liberty to note 

All that to each is precious, as we float 

Gently along ; regardless who shall chide 

If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide, 

Happy Associates breathing air remote 

From trivia] cares. But, Fancy and the Muse, 

Why have I crowded this small bark with you 

And others of your kind, ideal crew ! 

While here sits One, whose brightness owes its hues 

To flesh and blood ; no Goddess from above, 

No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love? 



BONNET 



TO SLEEP. 



A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by, 
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees 
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky ; 



528 Wordsworth's poems. 

I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie 
Sleepless ! and soon the small birds' melodies 
Must heard, first uttered from my orchard trees ; 
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
Even thus last night, and *:wj nights more, I lay, 
And could not win thee, Sleep ! by any stealth : 
So do not let me wear to-night away : 
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth ? 
Come, blessed barrier between day and day, 
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health ' 



PRESENTIMENTS. 

Presentiments ! they judge not right 
Who deem that ye from open light 

Retire in fear of shame; 
All fieaven-horn Instincts shun the touch 
Of vulgar sense, — and, being such. 

Such privilege ye claim. 

The tear whose source I could not guesg 
The deep sigh that seemed fatherless. 

Were mine in early days ; 
And now, unforced by time to part 
With fancy, I obey my heart, 

And venture on your praise. 

What though some busy foes to good, 
Too potent over nerve and blood. 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 529 

Lurk near you — and combine 
To taint the health which ye infuse; 
This hides not from the moral Muse, 

Your origin divine. 

How oft from you, derided Powers! 
Comes faith that in in auspicious hours 

Builds castles not of air; 
Bodings unsanctioned by the will 
Flow from your visionary skill, 

And teach us to beware. 

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, 
That no philosophy can lift, 

Shall vanish, if ye please, 
Like morning mist : and, where it lay, 
The spirits at your bidding play 

In gayety and ease. 

Star-guided contemplations move 

Through space, through calm, not raised abov9 

Prognostics that ye rule ; 
The naked Indian of the wild. 
And haply, too, the cradled Child, 

Are pupils of your school. 

But who can fathom your intents, 
Number their signs or instruments.? 

A rainbow, a sunbeam, 
A subtle smell that Spring unbinds. 
Dead pause abrupt of midnight winds, 

An echo, or a dream. 

The laughter of the Christmas hearth 
With sighs of self-exhausted mirth 
45 



')30 Wordsworth's poems. 

Ye feelingly reprove ; 
And daily in the conscious breast, 
Your visitations are a test 

And exercise of love. 

When some great change gives bound^ss ucopfl 
To an exulting Nation's hope, 

Oft, startled and made wise 
By your low-breathed interpretings. 
The simply meek foretaste the springs 

Of bitter contraries. 

Ye daunt the proud array of war, 
Pervade the lonely ocean far 

As sail hath been unfurled ; 
For dancers in the festive hall 
What ghastly partners hath your call 

Fetched from the shadowy world. 

*Tis said, that warnings ye dispense, 
Emboldened by a keener sense ; 

That men have lived for whom. 
With dread precision, ye made clear 
The hour that in a distant year 

Should knell them to the tomb. 

Unwelcome insight ! Yet rliere are 
Blest times when mystery is laid bare, 

Truth shows a glorious face, 
While on that isthmus which cofitimands 
The councils of both worlds, she stands, 

Sage spirits ! by your grace. 

God, who instructs the brutes to scent 
All changes of the element, 

' ' '" / ..„ ■ i n / 7 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 531 

Whose wisdom fixed the scale 
Of natures, for our wants provides, 
By higher, sometimes humbler, guides, 

When lights of reason fail. 



MEMORY. 



A PEN — to register; a key — 
That winds through secret wards ; ' 

Are well assigned to memory 
By allegoric Bards. 

As aptly, also, might be given 

A Pencil to her hand; 
That, softening objects, sometimes even 

Outstrips the heart's demand; 

That smoothes foregone distress, the lines 

Of lingering care subdues, 
Long-vanished happiness refines, 

And clothes in brighter hues ; 

Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works 

Those Spectres to dilate 
That startle Conscience, as she lurk» 

Within her lonely seat. 

O ! that our lives, which flee so fast, 

In purity were such, 
That not an image of the past 

Should fear that pencil's touch ! 



532 Wordsworth's poems. 

Retirement then might hour])' look 

Upon a soothing scene, 
Age steal to his allotted nook 

Contented and serene; 

With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, 

In frosty moonlight glistening; 
Or mountain rivers, where they creep 
Along a channel smooth and deep, 

To their own far-off murmurs listening. 



SONNET. 



It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 

The holy time is quiet as a Nun 

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun 

Is sinking down in its tranquillity; 

The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea. 

Listen! the mighty Being is awake. 

And doth with his eternal motion make 

A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with me nere, 

If thou appear untouched by solemn thougnt, j 

Thy nature is not therefore less divine: ^ 

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; ' 

And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 

God being with thee when we know it not. 



WORDSWORTh'S POEMS. 533 



TO A SEXTON. 

Let thy wheelbarrow alone — 
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still 
In thy bone-house bone on bone ? 
'Tis already like a hill 
In a field of battle made, 
Where three thousand skulls are laid ; 
These died in peace each with the other, 
Father, sister, friend, and brother. 

Mark the spot to which I point! 
From this platform, eight feet square, 
Take not even a finger-joint: 
Andrew's whole fireside is there. 
Here, alone, before thine eyes, 
Simon's sickly daughter lies. 
From weakness now, and pain defended. 
Whom he twenty Avinters tended. 

Look but at the gardener's pride — 
How he glories, when he sees 
Roses, lilies, side by side, 
Violets in families ! 
By the heart of Man, his tears, 
By his hopes and by his fears, 
Thou, too heedless, art the Warden 
Of a far superior garden. 

Thus then, each to other dear, 
Let them all in quiet lie, 

45* 



534 Wordsworth's poems. 

Andrew there, and Susan here, 

Neighbors in mortality. 

And, should I live through sun and rain 

Seven widowed years without my Jane? 

O Sexton, do not then remove her, 

Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover ! 



ODE, 

COMPOSED ON MAY MORNING. 

While from the purpling east departs 

The star that led the dawn, 
Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts, 

For May is on the lawn. 
A quickening hope, a freshening glee, 

Foreran the expected Power, 
Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tret, 

Shakes off that pearly shower. 

All Nature welcomes Her whose sway 

Tempers the year's extremes ; 
Who scattereth lustres o'er noonday, 

Like morning's dewy gleams ; 
While mellow warble, sprightly trill, 

The tremulous heart excite ; 
And hums the balmy air to stil 

The balance of delight. 



wori>s\vorth's poems. 5.'t5 

Time was, blest Power ! when youths and maida 

At peep of dawn would rise, 
And wander forth in forest glades 

Thy birth to solemnize. 
Though mute the song — to grace the rite 

Untouched the hawthorn bough, 
Thy Spirit triumphs o'er the slight ; 

Man changes, but not Thou i 

Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings 

In Love's disport employ; 
Warmed by thy influence, creeping things 
• Awake to silent joy: 
Queen art thou still for each gay plant 

Where the slim wild deer roves. 
And served in depths where fishes haunt 

Their own mysterious groves. 

Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath, 

Instinctive homage pay ; 
Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath 

To honor thee, sweet May! 
Where cities fanned by thy brislt airs 

Behold a smokeless sky, 
Their puniest flower-pot nursling daret 

To open a bright eye. 

And if, on this thy natal morn, 

The pole, from which thy name • 

Hath not departed, stands forlorn 

Of song, and dance, and game ; 
Still from the village-green a vow 

Aspires to thee addrest, 
Wherever peace is on the brow, 

Or love within the breast. 



536 Wordsworth's poems. 

Yes ! where Love nestles thou canst teach 

The soul to love the more ; 
Hearts also shall thy lessons reach 

That never loved before. 
Stript is the haughty one of pride, 

The bashful freed from fear, 
While rising-, like the ocean-tide, 

In flows the joyous year. 

Hush, feeble lyre ! weak words refuse 

The service to prolong! 
To yon exulting thrush the Muse 

Intrusts the imperfect song ; 
His voice shall chant, in accents clear, 

Throughout the live-long day. 
Till the first silver star appear, 

The sovereignty of May. 



LIFE. 

/Hast thou seen, with flash incessant, 
Bubbles gliding under ice, 
, bodied forth and evanescent, 

No one knows by what device ? 

Such are thoughts ! — a wind-swept meadow 

Mimicking a troubled sea, 
Such is life; and death a shadow 

From the rock eternity! 



Wordsworth's poems. 537 



SONNET. 

Alas ! what boots the long laborious quest 

Of moral prudence, sought through good and ill 

Or pains abstruse — to elevate the will, 

And lead us on to that transcendent rest 

Where every passion shall the sway attest 

Of Reason, seated on her sovereign hill; 

What is it but a vain and curious skill, 

If sapient Germany must lie deprest, 

Beneath the brutal sword ? — Her haughty Schools 

Shall blush ; and may not we with sorrow say, 

A few stroiig instincts and a few plain rules. 

Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought 

More for mankind at this unhappy day 

Than all the pride of intellect and thought ' 



THE RAINBOW. 

My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky : 

So was it when my life began ; 

So is it now I am a man ; 

So be it when I shall grow old. 

Or let me die ! 
The Child is father of the Man; 
And 1 could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 



538 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 



SONNET. 

With Ships Ue sea was sprinkled far and nigh. 

Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed ; 

Some lying fast at anchor in the road. 

Some veering up and down, one knew not why. 

A goodly Vessel did i then espy 

Come like a giant from a haven broad ; 

And lustily along the bay she strode, 

Her tackling rich, and of apparel high. 

This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her, 

Yet I pursued her with a Lover s look ; 

This Ship to all the rest did I prefer : 

When will she turn, and whitlier ? She will brook 

No tarrying ; where She comes the winds must stir 

On went She, and due north her journey took. 



WRITTEN IN MARCH, 

WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT Of 
brother's WATER. 

The cock is crowing, 
The stream is flowing, 
The small birds twitter, 
The lake doth glitter, 



WORifWORTH's POEMS. C^ 

The green -fiel sleeps in the sun ; 
The oldest ad }\ '^est 
Are at wodwith the strongest; 
The cattle je grazing, 
Their headpever raising; 
J. There are foi feeding like one 

Like an army defeated 

The Snow hath retreated, 

And now doth fare ill 

On the top of the bare hill ; 
The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon 

There's joy in the mountains ; 

There's life in the fountains ; 

Small clouds are sailing, 

Blue sky prevailing ; 
The rain is over and j^ooe 



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